Horse Hunt
by SillastraDragontongue
Summary: Sequel to Wolf Hunt. Chandre's back with the Winchester boys, and they investigate a series of decapitations in a small town in Oklahoma. Reviews would be awesome! No Mary Sue. Chapters 913 are up! [Complete]
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hey again. Well, here's the second part to the story. If you haven't read "Wolf Hunt," then you probably should, because this picks up immediately after that. Anyhow, thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy! Reviews would be awesome.

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural, only my own characters.

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The soft hum of an engine woke her, and she cracked her eyes open, closing them rapidly as a patch of sunlight blinded her. Moaning, she opened them again, and Sam glanced back at her. "How're you feeling?" he asked as Dean glanced back, one hand on the wheel of his precious Impala.

"Morning, Sleeping Beauty," he grinned.

"Where are we?" she groaned, sitting up and staring about her. A gasp wrenched from her throat. They were out of the hilly valley that surrounded Cains and Douver and had entered a long swath of plains, with a never-ending horizon of grass.

"Oklahoma," Dean smirked. "Home of the grand nothingness."

"You were out for four days," Sam explained. "We were getting kind of worried."

Her stomach gurgled, and she felt hungry. Four days indeed. More like four months. "Did he leave?" she asked softly.

"Yeah," Sam said quietly, and she closed her eyes.

"Why are we in Oklahoma?" she asked, struggling to sit up. Managing finally, she leaned against the seat, tilting her head up and feeling filthy.

"Got word of a series of decapitations in Gozola," Dean replied. He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other elbow resting against the seat. He looked completely relaxed and at home, radiating a restless peace. Sam was less comfortable, more because she picked up that they hadn't spent the last four nights in a bed but had stayed in a car. Both showed no aggression to her, which she guessed was a good thing.

"Eyewitnesses said it looked like a man on horseback, although he didn't seem to have a head," Sam added.

"So what do we do when we get there? Kill it?"

"You got it," Dean smirked. "Apparently it's got a sword. Maybe you can duel with it."

"Maybe," she mumbled, and sunk back down to sprawl across the backseat. It wasn't very comfortable, but she finally managed a position that didn't hurt, and slept.

"Hey Sleeping Beauty, wake up," someone said above her, and a hand gripped her shoulder, shaking her. Her survival instincts kicked in and she lunged for her attacker, hands gripping about his neck.

"Shit!" Dean gargled and she felt hands trying to pry her off. Opening her eyes, she realized what she was doing, and released him quickly. He leaned back against the dash, looking sullen. "What the hell was that? A freaky love tap?"

"You shouldn't have shaken me," she replied, yawning and feeling a little better, even if her muscles were stiff. "It's a reflex."

"Then how do we wake you up without getting a bloody nose?" Sam asked, watching as his brother dabbed the bloody appendage.

"I guess you could just squeeze my shoulder or something. But get back really fast." She realized finally that they had stopped, and looked around. "This Gozola? It looks pretty small." There was a parking lot, some stunted planted trees, and three buildings. One was a kiosk with a big sign that said "Information," and the other was a bathroom. The last could have been a coffeehouse, but it was empty.

Dean shook his head. "Rest area. I wish these things came with showers, because you smell like something died."

"Sorry."

He grunted and got out of the car. Leaning back in, he said, "If you two gotta go, then get your asses out of the car, because when I'm coming back, I'm going with or without you."

Chandre scrambled out of the car, and followed them towards the bathroom. Luckily there weren't that many people at the rest area because those that saw her looked at her funny. Staring at the blurred mirror, she grimaced at herself. Her face was puffy with sleep, and her hair was a red mass of craziness. She managed to tame it somewhat, and came out to see Sam and Dean already in the car, waiting impatiently. Climbing in, she asked, "Where're my knives?"

"Your arsenal is under the seat," Sam replied as Dean gunned it onto the freeway. "But we put the gun in the trunk with your ammo, along with your backpack."

She pulled out her sword and examined it closely, holding it low so that the people in the other cars couldn't see it. Running her hand down the smooth metal, she checked for any nicks. Finding none, and no rust, she smiled with relief. The gun would have to be cleaned, though.

Dean was still driving steadily when she drifted back off to sleep, joining Sam, who had cushioned his head against the seatbelt.

"Rise and shine, sleepyheads," Dean called, and she cracked open an eye to see that it was still sunny, but the sun had shifted a little. "There's a town in a couple of miles. Hungry?"

"I could eat a house."

They saw the town long before they reached it, and Dean pulled off, heading straight to a drive-through McDonalds. Chandre got four hamburgers, to the slight surprise of the guys, who each got two. She was finished quickly, and lay back to sleep, letting her body heal.

It was dark when she woke up next and they had pulled in front of a small motel, which Dean grumblingly admitted was the only one in town. Sam got the rooms and Chandre helped take the things inside, but was practically shoved into the bathroom and ordered to scrub like mad. She managed to grab one of her knives before she went in, and washed thoroughly, using the entire dinky complimentary shampoo and conditioner bottles and half the bar of soap, leaving a thin sliver when she climbed out. Examining her stomach, she smiled slightly. Time for the stitches to come out. Carefully she began to rip them apart, wincing with each one. Her arms came next, and then slowly she did the neat line on her shoulder. It was almost too late to take the stitches out, so they hurt a lot more than they should have, but she didn't mind. With a couple more meals and another full night of sleep she'd be back in business.

Someone banged on the door, and she jumped, almost dropping the knife and gouging it into her skin. "You done yet?" Sam called.

"Gimme ten more minutes."

"You've been in there an hour," Dean yelled back. "What _could_ you possibly be doing in there?"

Chandre stepped out, wrapped in a towel with her dirty clothes in her arms. "Taking out those stitches," she replied calmly, and dumped the clothes in a pile. Dean and Sam stared at her, and she took the momentary shock at the blood trickling from her shoulder to grab her bag and dash back into the bathroom.

Dean roused first. "Hey!" he yelled, banging on the door. "You can't take that again! I have to pee!"

"Piss in a bottle," she called, laughing as he growled in frustration. Quickly she dressed, finally comfortable in clothes that were her own and fit her. Keeping her hair wrapped in its towel, she came outside, ducking under Dean's arm as he raised it to bang against it again. He moved inside without a word.

Sam was sprawled on the far bed, watching the scene and snickering. Before him sat a computer, which he had probably been working on. The TV was also on, but she didn't recognize the program. Not that she would, she supposed, sitting on the opposite bed. "Are we going out tonight?" she asked, parting her hair and combing it. Her shirt would be wet, but that was okay. It would dry.

"The Headless Horseman only strikes at night. I was hoping we could catch him in the act and make this quick," Sam replied.

"'The Headless Horseman'? That is the stupidest name I have ever heard," Chandre said.

"It's based on an urban legend in the 1700s or so. Haven't you heard it? Of course not. Well, this guy's missing a head and he rides around looking for it. Mostly it's just a vengeful spirit lashing out against people and taking back what it thinks belongs to it." Sam typed rapidly, eyes transfixed on the computer. "So far there have been three incidents in the last two months, but I've found in the newspaper archives that it's happened over ten times in the last seventy years."

"Huh." She braided her hair and wrapped it into a bun. Wandering around the tiny room, she found a used newspaper. "You using this?" Sam shook his head absently and she spread it across the other bed, taking her gun from her bag, along with some cleaning solution.

The sound of the shower turning on wafted through the closed door, and there was a muffled cry of indignation as Dean discovered that there was no soap. Shortly after, off-key singing echoed through, the headbanging stuff they had been listening to in the car.

Sam watched in avid fascination as her fingers nimbly moved along her gun, cleaning in all its nooks and crannies, and then flew to reassemble it as she watched TV, her eyes wide with amusement. Finishing by slipping ten rounds of silver bullets into her cleaned clip, she slid it in and snapped a round into the chamber, then clicked on the safety.

The shower shut off, but Dean stayed in there for a half hour, until Sam finally called, "Dude, it's eight o'clock. Do you want dinner or what?"

"A face this gorgeous needs time to prepare," Dean called back, and Chandre snickered softly. She had cleaned her gun once more and was working on sharpening her daggers and sword. The sword really didn't need to be sharpened, seeing as it was spelled against bluntness, but it was a good habit. She spent more time on her knives, and decided that she was happy she had packed several long-sleeved shirts. They would hide her wrist sheaths and the purple scars on her arms, although the latter would fade away into smooth pale skin in a week or so.

Sam rolled his eyes, and went back to searching. Dean walked out of the bathroom twenty minutes later, at about the time when Chandre's stomach was pending to implode, looking exactly the same as he had before, if a lot cleaner. Sam went next, and was in and out in fifteen minutes.

In that time Dean had eyed over the work on the computer and was idly flipping through channels, searching for a good show. Finding none, he stood up and shrugged into his coat, and they all walked out the door to the car.

There was one diner in town, and from the looks it was slightly empty. More than slightly empty, Chandre discovered: they were the only customers. A slightly frazzled woman walked over to them as they slid into a booth, Chandre and Sam facing Dean, and the waitress dropped their menus in front of them, smiling prettily at Dean.

"How're ya'll doin' tonight?" she drawled, pulling a battered notebook from her folded over apron.

"Just fine," Dean replied, flashing a grin that could charm the scales off a snake. He scanned through the menu, and remarked blandly, "Not many people in here tonight. Business always like this?"

"Not since the attacks," the woman replied. "You three be careful now. Something's been killing folks hereabouts. They're calling it a serial killer."

"Really?" Sam asked. "I heard something about it in the paper. It said that he lops the heads off of his victims."

The woman shuddered. "Gets 'em while they're walking alone on the street. That's why the place is deserted."

Dean flashed another charming smile. "Any similarities in the victims?"

The woman froze up all of a sudden, and Dean just smiled a little more. "Sorry not to let you know, ma'am, but we're from the FBI." Dean and Sam flashed fake IDs at the woman, too quick before her dense skull might figure out that they were fakes. Chandre held up a badge that said she was a Federal Marshall, and lowered it before the woman noticed that it was not like the others. "I'm Agent Evans and these are my partners, Agent Donovan and Agent Luca." Chandre smiled at the woman, and went back to reading her menu.

"Oh," the woman said, looking flustered. "Um, similarities, then? They were all women, mostly middle-aged. I think they were brunettes, too, but some could have dyed. I'm pretty sure that that Donna Owens was a blond, probably trying to look smarter too." She looked up at them. "Is that helpful at all?"

"Just fine, thanks," Dean replied with yet another smile. Chandre fought hard to stop herself from rolling her eyes.

"Are y'all ready to order now?"

"Yeah," Sam said thoughtfully. "I'll take a cheeseburger."

"Hamburger," Dean replied, raising his eyebrows at Sam.

"Three cheeseburgers, please," Chandre said, startling the woman, who glanced up sharply at the slender girl before her. With an apologetic smile, woman to woman, she sighed, "They always eat my food, so extras are fine and dandy."

The woman smiled, understanding, and sashayed off, moving her beer keg butt behind the counter. Another customer entered, jingling the bells hanging at the door, and she hustled over to the tired couple.

"Three cheeseburgers?" Dean asked. "Where do you put it?"

"Fast metabolism," Chandre smirked. Although it had more disadvantages than perks. Mostly it just brought strange looks, so she tended to eat the usual amount for a female, and that made her bare bones. Shi was always shoving food into her mouth whenever he could.

"If you keep eating like this, you're freaking paying your own way," Dean pointed out.

"You'll just have to hustle some more pool," Sam said.

"Poker too, probably," Dean sighed.

"Poker?" Chandre hid a grin. She knew poker. "I think I can play that."

"Good?" Dean asked.

"I've played once or twice." Shi was better than she was; loads better, and he had tried to teach her. She always knew when people were bluffing, though, so that sometimes helped balance her lack of skill.

The waitress came back with the food, and Chandre dug in. She'd have to pay her way soon enough, but first she'd have to acquire some. The funds from her last job hadn't gone straight to her but to the mercenary company she worked for, and she wouldn't get a cut of the shares. She also didn't have another job lined up yet, and both she and Shi had used up the meager funds to operate the last job, so she was completely broke. And it seemed like Dean and Sam didn't get paid for wasting supernatural critters.

She noticed that the waitress was watching her carefully as she ate all three cheeseburgers, a slightly disturbed look on her face, but Chandre was too hungry to care. Perhaps once her body had completely healed she'd be able to back down and let herself starve a little bit.

"So what's the plan for catching this thing?" Chandre asked through a mouthful.

"We'll just head down to where the attacks have been, and search around a bit," Sam replied. He had pulled out a pen and was doodling on a napkin. "From what I looked up, it's probably a spirit."

"No, really?" Dean asked. He was staring at Chandre, a puzzled look on his face. "What's up with your eyes? They're normal."

"She's wearing contacts, genius," Sam informed his brother.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious." Dean grabbed a fry from Chandre's plate and dug in, ignoring her glare. Finishing the last bite of her burger, she set on the fries, devouring them. Dean snuck another fry, watching Sam doodle.

The waitress walked over. "Will that be everything, now?" she asked, addressing Dean.

"Yeah." She set down the bill, and Dean handed her some cash with another smile.

After she brought back their change, they stood up and left, Sam slipping the napkin into his pocket. Out in the near freezing night air, Chandre shivered and pulled her coat tight about her body. Dean patted the hood of his car when they climbed in, and they slowly rattled off to the place where the bodies had been discovered.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Here's yet another chapter to torment you! Mwa hahahaha! Okay, maniacal genius aside, I'd like to thank ghostwriter and wolves-eyes for writing me reviews, starrfireflyfan for putting me on a fav list even though how knows how this story'll turn out (well, I know—but you don't), and supernaturalfan0718 for putting this sucker on alert-mode. Your fanship of my fanship is . . . fantabulous. Okay, I'll shut up now. Enjoy, and please review!

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It was a ten-minute drive down to the shallow creek. Buzzard's Bay, some people called it, but mostly it was nicknamed "Lover's Lane," as horny teens stopped there to have a little fun in the thin stand of trees. Dean cracked a remark that every haunted place was called "Lover's Lane," and they pulled into the clearing. Fortunately, no one was parked, and the place was deserted save for a yellow tape stretching across the crime scene.

Hopping out of the car, Chandre sniffed the air, detecting nothing. Then again, her nose wasn't as good as Shi's, and all she smelled was earth, water and exhaust from the Impala. If Shi was there, he probably could have picked up the stale blood from the murders.

"What're you, a bloodhound now?" Dean asked, popping the trunk.

"No." Dean handed his brother a 9mm, and Chandre grabbed her sword from the car, strapping it across her back. It rubbed against the fresh scars, but didn't hurt, being more of a comforting weight. "Were the heads found on the bodies?" she asked.

"No," Sam replied, tucking the handgun in the back of his pants. Dean slammed the trunk closed, the trusty shotgun at his side.

"Great," she muttered, and wandered towards the creek, staring into its muddy waters. Loose stones were scattered along the bank, providing terrible footing.

"Hey Scarlet, we're going this way," Dean called softly, and she turned to glare at him, but walked towards where he had ducked under the police tape. 

Sam was looking around, and Chandre stood at the edge of the tape, listening carefully, but it was only the normal sounds of night. An owl hooted, its call eerie in the darkness, and she shivered slightly. There was some legend about hearing the owl calling your name, but she couldn't remember it.

"Find anything, bro?" Dean asked, searching on his end.

A twig snapped, and Chandre put her hand on the hilt of her sword. Dean's eyes flicked towards her and then to the source of the sound, and then disregarded it. She didn't think it was anything either, but drew the sword anyways. No reason to get caught with one's pants down.

The runes flashed a mystical green, and then the blade settled to its usual silver color, glinting from the soft moonlight of the sliver of the moon.

"Nothing, dude," Sam replied, standing up from where he had been crouched over the chalk outline of where the body had lain. "Think it'll come tonight? I haven't done enough research, but all of the women attacked were alone. Their boyfriends were all off investigating some weird noise when they were attacked."

"Then maybe you two should hide yourselves," Chandre said, glancing around her. "Any significant similarities in the attacks besides the absent boyfriends and the fact that the women were all brunettes?"

"Not that I could find out, but I need to look through some more stuff. Maybe the local library would have something."

"Dude, this town is too small to have a library," Dean said.

Something snorted, and he whirled around, shotgun raised. "What the fuck?" he muttered. Sam pulled out his 9mm, and they stepped out of the crime scene.

"Sounded like a horse," the younger brother said.

"Maybe you should check it out," Chandre suggested, and they turned to her, eyebrows raised. "You said that the guys all left to investigate a weird noise." She flicked her sword, letting it flash in the dim moonlight. "Perhaps if you leave, the Horseman will come out and play."

"You're not a brunette," Sam remarked.

"I think we all know that, college boy," Dean smirked. He pointed at her. "Okay, we'll go. If that thing comes, you give a yell. Got it?"

She raised her sword in a salute. "Aye, aye."

They took off in the direction of the sound, and Chandre turned, shifting from foot to foot and hearing various noises. Her imagination taking off, probably, but she couldn't see the boys after a while. Sighing, she wandered down to the river. It might cut her off, but it would leave one less direction for the Horseman to attack her. If it even was a Headless Horseman. It could just be some loony with a sword who could ride a horse. They hadn't seen any hoof prints, after all. She wasn't sure if spirit horses left tracks, though.

Realizing that her mind was wandering, she focused, and jumped when a huge form materialized out of the stand of trees. Fog began to waft out of nowhere, curling about her feet, and there was a flash of steel and a thudding of shod hooves on the dirt road. The horse was huge, probably a draft animal of some kind, and pitch black, its eyes flaming red, nostrils flared and bleeding. The man astride it wore a long black cape and black armor, but of course, he was missing a head. Even so, the pair bore down on her, the horse cantering forwards, the Horseman raising his sword.

"Dean!" she yelled, but the fog swallowed her words, and the Horseman approached her. She flung herself away, rolling to her feet as the horse wheeled around, her gut sinking in dismay. People on foot just couldn't beat a person astride. There was another attack, the Horseman swinging his huge sword, and she parried it with her shorter one, dodging away from the horse's kicking hooves. Her arm stung from the vibration and she ducked away, falling to the ground, and she lost the sword.

"Dean!" she yelled, her voice tinged with panic, and the horse wheeled around again. Staggering to her feet, she sprinted for the creek, the horse bearing down on her. Slipping on the loose rocks, she tripped and fell, managing to pull out her gun as she twisted, landing on her back. Raising her arms, her eyes widened as the horse reared up above her to strike, and fired into the creature's chest just as a shotgun blast took the Horseman in the upper torso, followed by several quick rounds from the 9mm that knocked him from his saddle.

The horse reared back, screaming, and Chandre scrambled up, advancing on the Horseman, who was standing up, sword still in his hand. He bore down on her with deadly intent, and she backed up, feeling the water lap at her heels, realizing that she was trapped.

Another shotgun round tore into the Horseman, but his armor kept it off, making him only stagger a bit.

"Scarlet!" Dean yelled, and she saw them running towards her. Sam fired on the horse, downing it with another of its ear-splitting screams. The Horseman was drawing closer, and she fired again, taking it in the heart and cracking through its armor, but he didn't slow.

"My sword!" she yelled, backing up further. The Horseman swung at her, moving with unearthly speed, and she flung herself back, going waist-high into the creek. The water chilled her, slowing her body. "Toss me my sword!"

Firing the last round into his armor, she sprinted off, only to find him blocking her escape from the river, although he wasn't standing in it. Realizing that he couldn't enter or cross running water, she stayed where she was, the current threatening to suck her away.

Its body was tensed with frustration, and it turned from her to stalk towards the boys. Dean had her sword in his hands, and she realized that he was going to duel with it, even if he didn't really know how. Someone had taught him the basics from the look of his stance, but he couldn't beat the Horseman.

Sam fired some more rounds into the man's chest and his clip ran out. They backed away, and Chandre flicked her daggers into her hands and sprinted towards the spirit as it raised its sword at Dean. She burst out of the creek and tackled it, slamming her daggers into its back and snapping one in half, but she managed to knock the sword from its hands. They rolled several times, Chandre trying to knife it in its empty neck hole, and it slugged her, its gauntleted fists scraping her cheek.

Flipping it off with a knee and a kick, she cleared herself from it and stared as Dean plunged her sword into its chest, punching through the armor and into, or at least close to, the creature's heart.

The dying scream knocked the brothers to their feet, and there was a huge explosion of white. Blinking hard to regain her vision, Chandre stared at where her sword was now lodged in the ground, the runes rushing up and down the blade, flaring an angry green. The Horseman, and its horse, was nowhere to be seen.

"What the fuck just happened?" Sam asked, rubbing his face. Dean was already standing and looking around, scanning the area for the creature.

"I think we just vanquished it or whatever," Chandre said, sitting up and wincing. Sam held out his hand to her and she let him help her up, swaying slightly.

"It's not dead until we burn and salt its bones," Dean remarked. "And we should probably find the heads of its victims, too."

Chandre examined her sword carefully, watching the runes dance and flash before touching the hilt. The leather gripping had burned off, and she hissed in pain as the hot metal burned her fingers.

"What kind of sword is that?" Dean asked curiously as she sucked her fingers. "Don't tell me you have a magical sword. I don't do the fantasy shit."

"It's not magical," Chandre replied, gripping the hilt and tugging it from the ground. She examined the blade closely, pleased to find no chinks or nicks. "It's spelled against certain things, mostly useful stuff like no nicking or rusting, but it's got some other stuff like making things dead quicker. I think. I didn't make it. But it's nothing special." Standard issue, really. Shi had one just like it, although his was a little bigger.

"Would it have killed that Horseman?" Sam asked.

She shrugged. "Dunno." Wiping off the blade with a rag, she sheathed it in one fluid motion and flicked her good dagger back into her sheath, then picked up the remains of the dagger that had shattered. The damn thing had been good steel, too.

"We'd better hang around and make sure Horseman doesn't come back," Dean said. "Sammy, you'd better burn the midnight oil and find out who that thing is so we can burn its ass in the morning."

"You want me to take the car?"

Dean winced. "Yeah," he grated. "If you hurt her, I'll kill you."

Sam rolled his eyes, and his brother fixed him with a death glare, then tossed him the keys. "If it comes back, do you have it covered?" Sam asked. Dean kept staring "Scarlet, are you okay staying?"

"Just peachy." She shivered in the cold, and Sam frowned.

"I'll get you a hat and some gloves," he said, and Dean gave her a glare.

"You're not staying," he said. She just raised an eyebrow. "It's late, and you're still hurt. And you're pants are all wet. You'll get hypothermia."

"I'm staying," she replied, although her teeth were chattering. "A little c-cold never hurt anyone."

He crossed his arms, and Sam came back with the extra clothes, glancing down at her wet things. "Here's some pants," he said. "They might fit, but I don't have any dry shoes in the car."

"Thanks."

"She's not staying," Dean repeated, more to his brother than to her.

"Dude, you're not going to be all alone with that thing," Sam replied. "Stop being an ass."

Chandre was already changing, ignoring them talk. She was more interested in the cold and the shocked silence along the creek's bank. Wandering along the way, she let their conversation drift along to her, and the fog began to envelope her once more.

"Me an ass? Perish the freakin' thought!" Dean snapped. "What if she gets sick—"

"Scarlet?" Sam called, staring out at the slender figure. Fog was rapidly closing her form from view.

"Scarlet!" Dean yelled, and snarled at Sam as they ran forwards, "See what I mean?"

There was an inhuman scream, and the Horseman bore down on them, astride his huge black. "Shit!" Dean raised the shotgun, but the Horseman swung, snapping the gun in half with his broadsword.

Sam fired another clip into the thing's breastplate, but it bore down on Dean, the horse's eyes wild and red. The sword seemed to materialize out of the horse's chest, sprouting and blazing, and the four-legged creature screamed again and smashed to the ground, knocking his rider off once again.

Dean shot the Horseman, thinking only on destroying it once and for all, and shot it again and again, but it kept struggling up. Sam reloaded the gun and fired once more, but the creature struggled to its feet, broadsword up and swinging.

The horse screamed, and a piercing whistle split the air. "Hey ugly!" Scarlet called, and the Horseman turned. "Look what I found!" She was astride the horse, her face white and pale as it leapt out, trying to dislodge her from her perch.

"Scarlet, watch out!" Sam yelled as the horse twisted and bucked like a wreathing cat, but somehow she stayed on. The Horseman stalked towards them, and Dean spotted her sword, shoved into the ground.

"Fucking horse," Chandre snarled, hauling on the reins. "Turn, damn you. Mouth of steel." The horse screamed and did a crazy pirouette in the air, almost bucking her off, but she had a death-grip on its thick black mane. Kneeing it in the ribs, she spurred it forwards, haltingly towards the creek. It bucked and shied, squealing, and she realized that if she didn't bail, she'd probably die. The Horseman was already getting closer, and then Dean smashed her sword into its back.

There was another blinding light, and the horse screamed right along with its rider, and Chandre kicked it forwards, plunging them both into the creek. The waters rose above them, dragging her under, and she shoved away from the hellbeast, frantically trying to swim to the surface as the current swept her away.

She was wishing she had learned how to swim, her arms flailing as she fought to reach the surface when a hand grabbed hers and dragged her to air. Water splurted from her mouth, and she clutched Dean as he caught the bottom and helped her to shore.

Sam grabbed her coat, hauling her up, and together the three of them staggered towards the bank.

"Where is it?" Chandre gasped, and leaned over, coughing up the water that seemed to be sloshing about in her lungs.

"Gone again," Dean said, his teeth chattering. "And we should get going too before that thing comes back. More lives than a freaking cat."

"You okay?" Sam asked as she tugged her sword out of the ground where it had, once again, become implanted. At least her clammy fingers weren't scalded.

"Should have stuck with the pony rides," she wheezed. They reached the car, and Dean took in their condition with a sigh of long-suffering.

"You're gonna ruin the interior," he moaned before climbing into the front. Sam shoved Chandre into the middle, and sat down, smooshing her between them. She didn't complain, already growing colder.

Dean turned the heat up full blast, and they sped down the highway towards the motel, having resolved to come after the Horseman in the morning.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks for the reviews! Sexybeast, Ghostwriter, Wolves-eyes, you guys rock! Anyhow, hope you all like the next chapter.

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Chandre prowled the near silent room, half-listening as Sam and Dean commented over the near-ancient archive pictures. She was growing more and more restless by the second, and was getting pretty damn bored, too. Having no mind to peruse through years and years of dusty books looking for the identity of the Horseman, she was just thinking about running around screaming like a banshee when Sam said, "I think this is it."

Weaving her way through the rows of old, semi-rotten bookshelves that composed the basement of the town hall, she reached them and looked over the dusty book, reading upside down.

"Our Horseman was a Civil War soldier?" Dean asked, glancing at his brother with a raised eyebrow.

"All of the decapitations started happening in the 1870s, with Louisa Caldor. There was a ten-year break and then Mary Esterson was killed. We've already looked through the books, and there's been about fifteen since then, with a long period from 1948 to 73 when there were no killings," Sam said, not even glancing at his notes. Chandre was impressed.

"So, Geek Boy, who done it?" Dean asked.

"The last decapitation of a man in Gozola was in 1863, in the middle of the war," Sam said. "Here, read this."

Chandre leaned over, but couldn't really make out the funny scribbling from upside down. Fortunately, Sam read aloud for her benefit, "'Theodore Grayman, executed for crimes unrepeatable.'"

"That's insightful," Chandre drawled sarcastically.

"Hey, you want to do the work?" Sam asked.

"I just want to kill the thing," she replied. She pointed three paragraphs up. "What's that say? Hopefully where he's buried?"

Dean leaned over, but Sam beat him to it. "He was buried in an unmarked grave near Eldin Creek."

"That's helpful," Dean said, and leaned back.

"With his horse," Sam added.

"We're looking for horse bones too?" Chandre groaned.

"Does it mention the sword?" Dean asked. "That's a freaking huge sword. Did they even have those back then?"

"Broadswords were a little outdated then," Sam said. "And since it was so weird, they mentioned that the sword was thought evil and melted down and destroyed."

"Okay, let's hunt for the grave," Chandre said, needing to get moving. She didn't like being underground too much, and the lighting was terrible, with really only one dim light bulb hanging over their heads. They had had to use a flashlight to find the tomes of bound newspapers and the ledgers.

"Simple. It's by Buzzard's Bay, where all the killings took place," Sam said. "At a crossroads, which was destroyed a couple years after his death." Chandre nodded. She knew all about crossroads and how they kept vengeful spirits confused and under the ground.

"Any idea where that was?" Dean asked.

"Nope."

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Chandre stared at the deserted roadway, and stared about her, scanning the ground and knowing that there was no way she could find an unmarked grave that had been dug and covered almost 150 years ago. Luckily, Dean had a homemade EMP scanner, and it picked up a signature of some sort twenty feet before the end of the drive, and that's where they began to dig.

She took the third turn, and when the hole began to grow higher than her, she hit something solid. Bending down, she searched the wooden surface, and suddenly fell a foot down with a yelp as the cover gave way.

"You okay?" Dean called, leaning over.

"I found it," Chandre said, wincing at the musty smell. Old bones littered the area in no particular order, although she did find two skulls. Everything was in order. Clearing a wider area around the grave, she noticed that some of the larger bones had saw marks in them, and realized that they had cut the horse apart in order to fit it into the coffin. From the ragged edges, the creature had still been alive.

"You want out now?" Sam asked.

"Yeah." She handed the shovel up and crawled to the top, watching absently as they dumped a tub of gasoline into the hole and tossed a match in. Black smoke instantly blossomed, and she warmed her hands from the flames.

They covered the hole up after the fire had completely consumed everything, and left, having already checked out of the motel.

Later that night they stopped in Oklahoma City, having no leads to pursue and needing cash. Chandre felt glad that she had kept over a fairly sluttish outfit from her and Shi's last job, as she had had to do some undercover work . . . literally. She didn't explain much, though the brothers raised their eyebrows at her attire.

"You want money?" she asked.

"You're not going to sleep with anyone, are you?" Dean asked.

"Wasn't planning on it." Thankfully the shirt was long-sleeved, so it covered up her recent scars, even though it was mildly see-through and dipped very low in the front. The skirt, however, hung less than an inch from her ass, revealing all of her long legs.

"Good, because in Oklahoma, whoring is illegal," Dean said, pulling on a nice shirt. Sam stepped out the bathroom, and raised his eyebrows at her appearance, but didn't comment.

They decided to go to a bar, where there were some pool tables for Dean to hustle. Chandre went in separately, noting that there weren't too many women, and a lot of horny men. Just perfect. Dean had already established himself at a table and was playing merrily away, and Sam was at another table, so she set herself down at the bar and watched the action. Unfortunately, she was underage for drinking, but she didn't look it, and so wasn't carded. A good thing, since she didn't have a fake ID.

Right off the bat, the bartender slid three drinks in front of her. "What's this?" she asked, playing ditzy.

"Those guys." The man pointed a greasy finger at three patrons, who waved at her. They were all ugly and middle-aged, but she might have a chance with the one in the middle, who was wearing a suit. He at least looked like he might have more than a couple dirty ones shoved in his pocket.

Smiling, she crossed her legs and randomly chose a drink. Shi might be good at mixing drinks, but she couldn't tell a martini from a marguerita. The suit grinned and walked over to her. Bingo.

Dean watched Scarlet laugh and flirt with the group of men that had accumulated around her, and frowned. She wasn't working at all, damn her.

Sam nudged him, and he turned. "Don't get jealous," his younger brother teased, and Dean scowled.

"Shut up," he snapped, and turned back to his second game of the night. Sam was playing with him, and they were doing pretty well. Then again, Dean admitted, he was pretty damn good at pool. Although watching Scarlet giggle and be totally drunk was enough to make him want to walk over there and drag her away. He was fairly certain that she was underage to drink, and assassin or not, those were huge men.

Winning a couple hundred after three games, he judged everything pretty good, and glanced at Sammy, who hadn't won nearly that much, but then, he wasn't too good at gambling. Scarlet was still going strong, and it looked like she had been suckered into a game of poker.

"Let's go," Dean growled. There were no other girls in the bar half as pretty as Scarlet who weren't taken, and he didn't really feel like hitting on a woman with an ass the size of a car.

"What about Scarlet?" Sam asked, taking a pull on his beer. "We can't leave her." What about Scarlet? Dean asked silently.

"The motel's pretty close. I think she can handle herself." Scarlet didn't even seem to notice when they left.

Chandre stared up at the door, watching the guys walk out. Great. Just great. Now she'd have to walk back. Turning back to the table, she giggled at some incredibly stupid joke, and finished up an hour later, spending another half hour slipping away from the men, who seemed to want her to come home with them.

Managing to ease away from the group, she went back to the motel and slipped her key into the door, holding the money she had "earned" in her hands. Dean and Sam were both asleep, but Dean woke up with a lurch, pointing a gun at her.

"Just me," she said, and shut the door, slipping out of the heels with a groan. She really didn't like wearing three-inch heels, but Shi had liked them and they tended to work with men, although they made her taller than most. Counting the money, she smiled, pleased with her pull, and tossed it before Dean before sitting on the edge of the bed.

"You brought back money?" Dean asked. Sam twitched in his sleep and woke up, then glanced at the clock and moaned. Chandre felt bad for waking him—the poor guy was kept tossing and turning with nightmares every single night.

"Around four hundred dollars," she smirked, and began changing into what she wore for bed. Wearing pajamas was a complete mystery to her, since she tended to sleep naked with Shi and pretty much always had, even when they weren't together, but she had taken to wearing one of Dean's battered shirts and underwear.

"Four—what?" Sam asked, fully awake. Dean counted the money, and stared at her suspiciously.

"How'd you get this?" he asked.

"Well, first there was that poker game, and then they started drinking, and then I started to lighten their wallets," she admitted.

"You stole from them."

"They were stupid enough to try to pick up a pretty girl. Serves 'em right." Dean looked panicked, and she laughed. "Don't worry, they're all so drunk they won't remember anything in the morning. Even so, it's a good idea if we skip town pretty early."

"Dude, it's not like you don't steal all the time," Sam pointed out. "Like the credit card scams you and Dad run . . ."

"Hey, they _mail_ those cards to us," Dean protested.

"Just shut up and go to sleep, dumbass," Sam mumbled, and lay down.

"Bitch," Dean snapped back, his tone friendly.

Chandre snorted, and crawled in beside Dean. They had an unspoken arrangement between the three of them, since Chandre had learned that Sam had nightmares. Since she had a bad habit of lowering her shields when she slept, she tended to be caught in the same dream, making it worse. She and Shi had learned that the hard way, and she had freaked him out so much that he had almost killed her. From then on, she had kept her shields up, but sometimes they slipped . . . like when she was really hurt.

Dean lay facing away from her, and she snuggled up to him, back to back. Her last thought before she drifted to sleep was that she missed Shi, and wished that his arms were wrapped around her.

She woke to the beleaguered shifting of someone mired in nightmarish sleep, the waves of terror washing over her like torpid water. Dean shifted in his sleep, but his back remained to her. Lifting her head, she watched Sam toss about on his bed, silence screaming from his open lips. And he was broadcasting like an empath.

Easing away from Dean, she slipped around the bed to kneel on the edge of the bed near Sam, feeling hesitant and more than slightly timid. She really didn't want to delve into his mind, but if he didn't sleep . . . her hand touched his clammy forehead, and she jerked as emotions and images blasted her, almost knocking her to the ground.

_—Blood splattered his forehead, the drip, drip, dripping a minor annoyance until he opened his eyes and saw her—Jessica—pinned to the wall, her eyes dull and lifeless—A ghost attacked him, rushing forwards, malevolence pouring from its body, its eyes like Jess'—Shit shit, fuck! Dean's body slammed into a wall, blood spurting from a gaping chest wound that wouldn't close up in his fingers, couldn't close up—A man, dark haired, black eyed, stared down a long expanse of road, then screamed when a truck slammed into his body, crumpling into a bloody pancake— _

She reeled as his mind threatened to suck her under, breath rasping from her throat. Her body was shaking as she ran her thumb across his forehead, sending soothing thoughts, wiping clean the nightmares, plucking them away and taking them into herself. Sam sighed, and reached for her suddenly, thinking she was Jess.

Knowing she had only bought him a short respite from the nightmares, she let him pull her into the bed, and fell into a fitful doze, stroking his forehead.

"What the fuck are you doing?" someone hissed, and she cracked her eyes open, feeling stiff, that her eyes were gummy and bloodshot. Dean was leaning over her, looking pissed.

"He wouldn't sleep," Chandre mumbled, and became wide awake. Sam's forehead was pressed against her chest, his arms wrapped around her waist, his fingers entangled in her hair. "What time is it?"

Dean just looked at her with anger, as if contemplating whether to stick a knife in her or hug her for finally getting Sammy to sleep. Protectiveness poured from him, and she shivered, feeling the sleeping thoughts of everyone in the shitty motel. Some weren't so pleasant, and her mind felt like tenderized meat. Uncomfortably she shifted her shields higher, and the thoughts melted.

"A little after three." Gods, she had only been sleeping for an hour.

"He needs to sleep," she whispered. A mulish frown formed on Dean's face. Hesitantly, she added, "He thinks I'm her."

Dean almost killed her then. "If you hurt him—" he warned, his protectiveness winning over his consternation. He knew that if Sam didn't sleep, he'd crash pretty soon.

"Wake me up before five?" Sam couldn't see her sleeping next to him . . .

He nodded tightly and climbed back into his bed, but she felt his eyes on her back for a long time after that, as she drifted back to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: haha, and you thought they were done, huh? Nope, still a couple chapters to go, as you can see . . . Anyhow, Ghostwriter and Wolve's-eyes, thanks for the reviews. Sexybeast, you too, and congrats on your volleyball tournament, I've got one this Saturday, so wish me luck! We're playing against the air force and army, so it should be difficult. but fun:) As for the Dean/Chandre thing . . . ain't gonna happen. Sorry to burst your bubbles, but I really meant it when I said no Mary Sues. Okay, enough with the long talk, on with the chapter—enjoy!

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They were on the road before the sun rose that morning, Dean incredibly grumpy, Sam annoyingly perky, Chandre half-asleep and irritable. She had just managed to avoid getting hit with a glass of ice-cold water dumped on her after Dean had grown tired to trying to wake her without losing an eye. Crawling into the backseat, she watched as Sam hopped into the front seat and pulled out, Dean slouched in front of her, head tilted back.

"Where are we headed?" she asked, climbing over the seat to sit in between them. Riding in the back sucked. Shoving Dean to the side so she could have more room, she watched the road with Sam.

"No clue. Maybe north. Or south, where there's sun. I haven't heard of any disturbances, though, so we might just cruise around."

"Great," Chandre muttered. She didn't want to cruise around. At the moment she wanted to throttle something. Dean, preferably. She hated the mornings. She hated sitting watching the sunrise, she hated riding in a car at a time when normal people were asleep, and she especially hated people humming to horrible music. Perhaps her bad mood could have been from having to dodge the water Dean threw at her. Shi used to do things like that to her, too.

She sighed, hating the "used to." He wasn't leaving her. He absolutely positively _couldn't_ leave her, no matter the temptations. One: they were partners. Two: he _could_ have sworn undying love to her, or maybe she was just making that one up. Pillow talk was dubious at best. Three: they were bloodbound, meaning that their situation was rather complex. Four, and semi-most important to her: the company they worked for would send someone to hunt him down and eliminate him if he even thought about going rogue. That was how dangerous they were.

"You look like you've got the weight of the world on your shoulders," Sam remarked. She realized they had been silent—well, almost silent, since he had been humming—for quite a while now.

"Just thinking." She absently stroked the light purple scar on her arm, a nervous habit.

"Old battle wound acting up?" Sam asked, a smile in his eye. He wouldn't be so friendly if he knew that the Jess he had been sleeping with last night had been her. "Can you ever tell the change in weather?"

"No." She moved her hand away, and stared at the road. Now that she was up, she needed to freaking _do_ something. Anything. Everything. Any moment now, and she could go ballistic. Getting stuck in a car was the pits.

"You know, I know literally nothing about you," Sam said. Chandre jerked her head up, catching the absence of any hatred of her, just mild frustration. Dean hadn't told him that she was an assassin. Interesting.

"Maybe nothing should be known." Shifting in her seat, she decided to take the conversation to another topic. Anything to get away from discussing her life. "How did you come to be a hunter of the creepy critters of the night? Seems like most people don't like to see those sorts of things."

He got really still, and she got a look at the face that had been haunting him—blond, pretty, _Jess_. The name popped into her mind, and she blinked. Vengeance, driven into his rebellious mind. He wanted vengeance. Revenge. Action. "Oh." The word popped from her mouth, and she huddled into herself, feeling a little lost. She might have killed a lot of people but at least those she loved were still alive.

"You okay?"

"Just an epiphany," she replied absently.

Sam turned his head and stared at her, an eyebrow raised. "And here I was thinking you were cut from the same cookie-cutter as Dean. All action, no thought."

"My partner would beg to differ," she sighed. "He says I just barrel into things without a backward glance."

"Like getting on the Horseman's horse? What the hell were you thinking?" Sam asked.

"I dunno." At his raised eyebrow, she exclaimed, "Hey, I had a plan!"

"What was the plan?"

"Hop on the horse and . . . drive the Horseman from you guys."

"Great plan."

"It worked, didn't it?"

"And almost got you drowned in the process."

"At least the first part of my plan worked. And besides, I have an uncanny ability to bounce back from pretty much anything."

Sam sighed. "Okay, point granted."

"So what was your plan?"

"Will you two shut up?" Dean grumbled. "I'll freaking toss you from the car."

"Hah. Look who's closest to the door," Chandre smirked.

Dean muttered something and closed his eyes, falling asleep, or mimicking sleep. Either way, he ignored them.

Silence stretched in the car, broken only by the rattling of the Impala's old engine. It seemed to be growing more and more labored to her, but she couldn't really tell. They had been driving for a couple hours—at least it felt like it—and they were passing miles and miles of cornfields, or fields of hay and alfalfa and other crops. Or maybe just plains grass. Not one person or house in sight. They were heading along a mildly well-maintained road that was at least paved, although the amount of potholes was greatly increasing.

Finally Chandre sighed, and tilted her head back, slowly falling asleep.

00000000000000000000

She was just beginning to feel that America was one lonely country when they saw a sign announcing the location of a town. Which was good, seeing as she was hungry, it was dark, and they had long since used up their spare can of gas. The car was riding on fumes.

Dean was back at the wheel and his music was blasting, but she didn't mind so much, save that it was all angry screaming and crazy words. Then again, she rarely listened to music at all, so most of it sounded like that to her.

She had to admit, she wasn't at all surprised when the engine gave one last, strangled gasp and died. Dean groaned, and Sam sighed with frustration, but they all got out to push it over to the side of the road. Thankfully, after traveling for who knew how many hours, they had escaped the expanse of plains and entered some rolling hills covered with stunted trees.

A wolf howled in the distance, and they jumped, but it had come from far away. Its buddies raised their voices to join him, and they too, were far away.

"I can't believe you didn't turn back for gas at that last town," Sam grumbled as he pressed his shoulder against the heavy car and shoved. Chandre was beside him, shoving with all her might, and the car inched forwards fairly quickly after Dean remembered to put it in neutral.

"Dude, it was fifty miles ago," Dean protested.

"And it was almost empty. You should have realized that, you car-obsessed maniac! You like that rattling death-trap better than anyone else!"

Chandre realized that Sam had gone a little too far with that statement when Dean's face froze and he straightened, his hazel eyes hard. Sam stood up as well, looking slightly scared but deciding that he was going to shove his way through this.

"Do you really want to walk?" Dean snarled.

"Well, we're going to have to. The next town is in eleven miles."

"Okay, then start walking."

"Why don't you? It's your freaking car."

Chandre rolled her eyes and opened the door, letting them bicker. They were tussling when she got her things, and she strapped her holster on, watching them roll about the ground, snarling insults at each other. Finally fed up with it, she waded into the fight, caught a swinging punch from Sam, and grabbed the backs of their heads, smacking them together.

The brothers recoiled back with yells of pain. "What the hell was that for?" Dean snarled, glaring at her.

She shrugged into a coat. "I was just letting you know that I am leaving."

"What? Where?" Sam asked. "You're supposed to stay with us."

"Idiots," Chandre moaned. "I'm going to the next town for gas." They opened their mouths, but she pointed a finger. "I can make the trip much faster than either of you. So, if you think that you can stay here without disemboweling each other, then I'll be back as soon as I can find a gas station."

"You're just going to walk out there alone?" Dean asked. "Damn it, I'm coming with you."

"I can make better time than you." Too bad it was a little too chilly to wear shorts, so she'd just have to run in her jeans and boots. Not very pleasant, but she'd traveled quickly in worse.

"Wanna bet?" Dean asked. "I'm pretty fast."

Chandre smirked. "Let's race, if you're so sure."

"Then I'm coming too," Sam said. Dean shot him a look. "The car'll be fine, bro. Besides, I've gotten faster over the years."

"Fine," Dean sighed.

Chandre picked the lock to the trunk, and removed the empty gas can. It was the regular plastic kind, and pretty light, so she wouldn't get bogged down. Slamming the hood of the trunk down, she saw Dean wince, but he did nothing more than lovingly pat his baby and scowl at her.

"Ready?" Dean asked after locking up his car. "Scarlet, want a head start?" He and Sam smirked at her.

She just laughed. "I'll see you guys at the gas station."

Dean just shrugged and took off, Sam right behind him, protesting a foul play. Chandre darted off immediately after them, the gas can awkward in her grasp. Her legs and body moved to the rhythm of the race, and she caught up with them after they had gone about a hundred yards down the road.

Deciding that she'd surprise them, she jumped silently off the road and sprinted through a tiny stand of trees, moving soundlessly and swiftly until she had passed them. It took a while since she was trying to be stealthy and move faster than them without being seen, but she managed to completely pass them just as Sam inched ahead of Dean. Dean didn't look too pleased, and his competitive juices were flowing as he raced after his brother. Chandre cleared them by several hundred years before hopping back onto the road, and from there her progress was swifter, the pavement firm and sure under her feet.

An hour and twenty-three minutes later, she reached the gas station, which was in the final stages of being closed. The lonely attendant, a skinny teen with acne bubbling on his nose and cheeks, stared as she stopped and panted for breath, setting the can down near one of the pumps.

"You okay, miss?" the boy asked, his eyes wide as he took her in. Her coat was open, and her shirt was thin and moist with sweat, revealing probably more of her breasts than she wanted people to see, and her hair was probably wild and everywhere, sticking to the back of her neck, under her chin, and just about any place else.

"Yeah. My uh, car broke down, and I had to walk to the station," she said. "Could I get this can filled, please? I've got some cash to pay for it . . ."

The kid took the can, still staring at her, or rather, at her chest. Chandre felt slightly embarrassed. She didn't have large enough breasts to warrant _that_ kind of attention. They were something on the small side. "Uh, okay, gas, sure," the kid stammered, regaining his senses.

He managed to fill up the can, only missing the lid once or twice, and spilling the harsh-smelling liquid on his battered nikes. "So, uh, where'd your car break down?" he asked, breaking the silence. His breath fanned out in a wave of steam, and she cringed inwardly. Her sense of smell wasn't that great, but he _reeked_ of stale beer and barbeque chicken wings. She wouldn't have known what the latter smelled like save that that had been their dinner two nights ago, and Dean's breath had stank too.

"About four or five miles back," she lied.

His eyebrows raised, and she was thankful that she hadn't told him the full distance. "You walked that far at night?" he asked, looking slightly scared. His face went pale and the zits got red enough that the white tips looked like bulls-eyes.

"Yeah. Why? Is the highway haunted or something?" she teased, and the kid grinned, sharing the joke, although he looked a little queasy.

"Nah, this highway ain't haunted," he replied, and recapped the lid on the tank. "Want a ride back to your car?" His mind was harboring some rather lecherous thoughts, mostly on what she looked like with her shirt off. She figured she could take him down, easy. The kid was skin and bones, no muscle mass and no training. Just a horny teen.

"Sure." She wasn't quite in the mood to walk back, and besides, it would give her a chance to smirk at Dean and Sam as they moved onwards. They had to be at least twenty minutes behind her, and this business at the pump took ten minutes, as the kid started up the gas station truck and she hopped inside.

The cab was cramped and filled with the junk and grease associated with car repair, and they rattled down the road, passing her two companions. She just grinned, but they didn't notice her in the passenger seat.

"Idiots," the gas attendant remarked. "I don't know about you, miss, but the road ain't that safe at nights."

"Really? What's so bad about them?" Chandre asked. They had gone a lot further than four to five miles by now, she reckoned, but at least the kid hadn't seemed to notice.

"Well, they're just dangerous. Been about five crashes the last three years." The Impala loomed closer. "That your car?"

"Yep."

The kid made a U-ie and pulled alongside it, and went so far as to fill up the tank for her as she sneakily picked the lock to the car. He didn't even seem to notice that she didn't have the keys when she hot-wired it, and smirked with satisfaction. Shi had taught her some things, she thought gleefully.

"You gonna be okay?" the kid asked.

"Just fine, thanks." She pressed the correct wad of bills in his hands, plus a five dollar tip. "Thanks for the lift."

"Anytime." He scratched the back of his pimply neck, and she thought she could hear some zits popping. Ew. "Say, do you, uh, wanna know a good place to stay in town for the night?"

"Nah. But mind if I follow you in? I need to fill up the rest of the tank." She patted the roof of the Impala. "Damn thing just guzzles gas like no other." She almost smirked, thinking of Dean's face if he heard her say that. In fact, knowing him he probably had a psychic link to the damn vehicle and was going ballistic knowing that she was going to drive it.

"Sure." The kid hopped in his truck, and drove annoyingly slow into town, as if to make sure that he didn't lose her.

Happily positioned at the wheel of the Impala, Chandre grinned, absolutely comfortable. The car might be older than the hills, but it had a great engine. She wanted to pass by the little weasel ahead of her and burn its engines, but was a good girl and puttered into town, where Dean and Sam were slouched at the station, looking around for the attendant.

Dean saw the Impala first, and his face got just as red and angry as she had imagined. Pulling up neatly at the tank, she let herself get hauled out of the car, laughing. Sam was snickering as well, having recognized the station truck as the one that had passed them.

"What the fuck did you do to my car?" Dean yelled, and shoved her away to run his hands lovingly over its entire exterior, looking for any dent or scratch to justify his rage.

The attendant looked alarmed, and said quickly, "Mister, if you don't step away, I'm gonna call the cops."

"Call the cops?" Dean asked. "Sure, call them. She freaking stole my car!"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Don't be such a wimp, Dean. Nothing happened to your car." His brother swooned over his prize possession, stroking the hood with two fingers. Chandre snorted. Then he got the ingenious idea to look inside, and found that she had hot-wired it.

"You freaking hot-wired my car!" he yelled. "What for?"

"It's not like I had the keys or anything," she explained patiently.

"Uh . . ." the kid said, and she turned to him while Dean fussed over the wires.

"Here, fill it up," she said, passing him a wad of cash she had pick-pocketed from Dean when he pulled her from the car. "I think that's fifty bucks, so it should be about a full tank. And don't bother calling the cops—these're my traveling buddies."

Soundlessly the kid took the wad, and was about to fill up the tank when Dean grabbed the nozzle and put it in himself.

"You'd almost think he was married to the thing," Sam muttered to her, and she rolled her eyes in agreement. They had stepped a little off to the side, watching as Dean fussed, completely ignoring them "How'd you get here before us? You never passed us. Wait a second—you called the station."

"Nope." He noticed that she was just as sweaty as they were. "I went off the side of the road through the bushes and stuff to get around you guys. Good trick, huh?"

"You're in so much trouble for hot-wiring his car," Sam said, looking amused. "Where you in jail or something?"

"No. Sh-Striker taught me. Since he's the better shooter and I'm the ah, more reckless driver, he said that I'd better learn how to steal my own cars."

"You a bank robber or something?"

"Only once," Chandre admitted. "It's not as exciting as it sounds." It had taken way more preparation than she was willing to do, and was completely tedious and dull. That they hadn't gotten any of the money stolen probably added to her lack of enthusiasm over the entire deal.

Sam looked speculative, but didn't say anything as Dean came back, a pack of M&Ms in hand. He scowled at Chandre, probably having noticed that she had lifted the money from him. With a shrug, she climbed into the car, and they set off.

Dean drove steadily, and Chandre drifted off to sleep, lured away from a sleep filled with the residue of Sam's dreams when the younger brother asked, "What'd you find out?"

"Nothing." Dean's sounded like he had just swallowed a canary, feathers and all.

"Where are we headed, then?"

"Oregon."

Chandre cracked an eye open. "That's a freaking thousand miles from here!" Sam exclaimed. "What the hell is in Oregon besides rain and . . . rain?"

"You'll see," Dean sang, and Chandre's eyes came fully open.

"Where's Oregon?"

"Above California," Sam explained.

"And below Washington," Dean added with another smirk. He definitely had something up his sleeve.

"Uh . . . guys? What the hell are California and Washington?"

They turned to stare at her, Dean turning back quickly to keep his eyes on the road. "Are you from another planet or something?" Sam asked.

"Of course not," she scoffed. "Never mind my asking."

"You are one weird girl," Dean drawled. "Did you grow up in a shell?"

"Shut up," she growled, and leaned back against the window, crossing her arms. "So when will we get there?"

"It'll be a long trip," Dean said.

"The way Dean drives—two days."

"Yipee." She couldn't even imagine spending two days cramped in a car. It just might drive her crazy.

"There's bound to be snow over the Rockies," Dean added. "So tack on another couple of days."

Chandre groaned, and closed her eyes, seeking the oblivion, and finding only the haunted dead eyes of Jess.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: I'm back! Sorry for the slight delay, and thanks for the reviews! Much appreciated, you guys rock. Anyhow, the next chapter will be a lot shorter, and they'll be getting to Oregon soon . . . perhaps I should change the damn title, but well . . . I don't reeeeeallly feel like it. Enjoy!

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A strand of drool ran down her mouth, adding to the puddle forming at the base of the window she was leaning her head against, and a slow trickle began to ooze down the door to the floor. Chandre made no effort to wipe it up, but let her eyes listlessly track the empty landscape sprawling before them.

She was bored. Bored. Bored. Boooored. Dean had been driving since she had hot-wired the car, and they had made two pit stops for gas before continuing on their merry way. With nothing to do, and the ceaseless drone of Dean's music giving her a pounding headache, Chandre had attempted to mediate but had found it nearly impossible.

"Are we there yet?" she asked, her voice taking on a plaintive whine.

Dean groaned. "No, not yet."

Sam looked just as bored as she did, although he had a book to ease the journey. He _had_ offered her one, Chandre admitted to herself, but the thought of reading _Mythistoricus_ or something like that by some dead dude called Thucydides made her cringe.

"How much longer?"

"How many times are you going to ask that?" Dean snapped.

"Until we get there."

He spared a glance back, and that I'm-gonna-go-bonkers-on-you look formed on his face. "What the fuck are you doing to my car!" he yelped, and swerved back to his side of the road.

Chandre hastily wiped up the drool with one of the discarded sweatshirts piled on the backseat. "Nothing."

"Chill out man." Sam glanced up from his thick text.

"You chill. She was sliming up my interior!"

"I'm boooored!" Chandre moaned, mashing her head on the seat before her.

"God, what are you, a child?" Dean sighed. "Do you want me to stop at a McDonald's and get you a toy or something?" Sam snickered.

"Let me drive."

"What!" The mere thought was blasphemy.

"Let me drive. I won't hurt it. Pleeeeeease."

Dean gave a nervous little laugh. "I don't think so."

She stuck her bottom lip out and widened her eyes. "Pretty please?"

"_No._" Sam just snickered harder.

Sighing, she sat back and crossed her arms, pouting. Shi always let her drive. Then she smirked. If he wouldn't let her drive, then . . .

"Are we there yet?"

Dean almost screamed with frustration.

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They spent the night at the base of the Rockies, where the plains shifted to rolling hills and forests, although the trees were scrawny and looked a little dry.

Chandre waited until the breathing of her two companions slowed before cracking her eyes open and easing the car door open. She had to get out or she was going to strangle someone. Sam stirred and turned towards her, eyes wide. His sleeping bag rustled in the dark confines of the car.

"Where're you going?" he whispered, watching as she eased outside.

"I need air," she replied, just as soft, and eased the door shut with a soft click.

Sam watched as she suddenly disappeared from view, vanishing almost literally from sight as she slipped into the underground.

Shoving Dean, he woke his older brother, who stared at him grumpily. Scarlet had been bugging him all day long, but he hadn't given her the keys to his precious Impala. "What?" Dean groaned, and glanced to the backseat. Instantly awake, he asked, "Where's Scarlet?"

"She said she needed air," Sam replied.

"Shit," Dean groaned, but made no move to go after her.

"What if she got into trouble?" Sam asked.

"This is a deserted stretch of road. She'll be fine."

"But we saw those ghosts two weeks—"

"Scarlet can handle herself," Dean replied, adamant. Probably he didn't want to go out into the cold to track her down.

"Dean . . ."

"What?" His brother's voice was laced with irritation.

"Who exactly is she?"

"Huh?"

Sam sighed. He'd have to use _smaller_ words, or at least concepts his Neanderthal brother could comprehend. "Can we trust her?"

"Yeah."

"Look, I know that this is the wrong time to ask, since she's been with us for a while now, but can we really trust her? I mean, just who is she?" Dean was silent, brooding, almost. His lack of response meant that he knew something that Sam didn't, and that was really irritating. Almost as irritating as Dean knowing what lay before them in Oregon and not telling. "You know, if I had gone off into the dark alone you would have come after me," he added.

Dean turned towards him, his hazel eyes shadowed in the dark. "You have a tendency to get yourself into trouble."

"Like she doesn't? She freaking got her stomach slashed open!"

Dean sighed. "Sammy—"

"It's Sam."

His brother frowned. "My car, my rules. _Sammy_."

"You jerk."

Dean smirked. "Bitch."

"But you're not going to sidetrack this conversation so neatly. _Just who is she?_"

"Why the hell do you want to know so badly?"

"Well, for starters, my previous point—that you're not haring after her."

"She can take care of herself."

"Meaning?"

"Just trust me."

Sam rolled his eyes. "And _two_, you don't flirt with her."

"So?"

"You flirt with everything that has boobs and two legs!"

"She has a boyfriend."

"That never stopped you before—wait, don't tell me you're _afraid_ of Striker."

"I am not!" Dean exclaimed.

"Then who the hell is she?" Sam paused after it became very clear than Dean wasn't going to tell him. "Just what happened in the forest between you two?"

"What do you mean?"

"Dean, you'd better answer me or I'm leaving."

Dean sighed, defeated. "I pulled a gun on her."

"You what? Why?"

"She told me she was an assassin."

"She's a—_what?_ Dude, that makes no sense." Well, on the other hand . . .

"She is. I watched her torture a werewolf for information, and then pointed the shotgun at her." Dean sighed. "Look, I really don't want to talk about it."

"What did she do to you?" Sam demanded. What was she holding his brother under?

"Nothing." There was an undercurrent that said there was something more, and Sam stared his brother down. "Okay. She saved my life, okay? A werewolf came out of nowhere and she shot it."

"Why didn't she kill you, if she's a big, bad assassin?"

"Said something about how I didn't really mean to kill her." Dean shook his head. "Look Sammy, I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but I didn't want you to freak out. That's why she can take care of herself. And also why I don't flirt with her. Okay? Happy now?"

"Then why's she with us, if she can take care of herself?" Sam asked.

"I dunno."

"So we're just doing what Striker wants us to?" Sam asked.

"It's not like she wanted to come," Dean replied. "I have no idea why he wanted her with us. Maybe protection?"

"You just said she can take care of herself."

"Well . . . she can't sleep alone."

"Great reason, genius."

"Look, aside from when she was almost dead, have you ever seen her sleep without one of us?" Dean asked. "I think Striker was looking out for her, and she knew that she couldn't follow him. With us is the safest situation."

"Dean, we hunt monsters for a living."

"And she hunts people, College Boy."

"So she's a monster who hunts people, and we're people who hunt monsters. Isn't that a tad ironic?"

"She's not a monster."

"Potato, Potahto. How long have we known her for?"

"Long enough. Sammy, she's fine, okay? So just give it a rest."

"Do you trust her, Dean?"

"I already told you."

"No, I asked, 'Can we.' Do you trust her?"

"Yes."

"But not with your car."

"I don't trust anyone with my car!"

"Not even me?"

Dean glared at him. "Only when I'm freaking desperate."

"Thanks, bro," Sam drawled.

One of the back doors opened and they jerked, startled to see Scarlet climbing back in, sweat pouring down her face.

"Where the hell were you?" Dean demanded, looking angry and irritated.

"Out," was the obtuse reply. She wiped her face with a sweatshirt.

"That's mine!"

"It was dirty anyways."

"It's my favorite sweatshirt!" Dean almost screamed.

She rolled her eyes. "Then you should wash it more often. It's freaking stinking up the back seat."

Sam felt a laugh coming from his throat. Not very many people could spar verbally with Dean without feeling intimidated, but she seemed completely unfazed, even when his older brother began flexing his muscles, his brain transforming from banter to fight.

"Tell me when you leave next time," Dean growled.

"Okay. _Mom_."

Dean seethed, but started up the Impala, letting it roar to life in all its gas-guzzling glory.

"Settle down kids," Sam teased. He had to admit, Scarlet didn't exactly threaten him, even though he had the feeling that she could be pretty scary when she wanted to.

Dean shot him a death glare. "Shut up, Geek Boy." He refused to be drawn into any more conversation, and they rumbled onwards into the Rockies.

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Lunch was a sorry affair following a nonexistent breakfast, and dinner didn't go much better, although they at least stopped at a near-bankrupt diner in a small town in Colorado to pause from the road and stretch.

Dean had taken the entire Rockies, and he was growing pale and tired. Deep circles underscored his eyes, but he refused to let anyone else take his baby through the mountains. They couldn't stop and camp in the car, as the temperature was dropping rapidly, causing their breath to mist like a ghostly apparition.

Chandre had ceased speaking, withdrawing further into herself as she grew more and more bored, more and more restless. She was so filled with energy that she had gone nearly comatose, which the brothers welcomed.

Listlessly she picked at her cheeseburger, staring at her plate absently. She hadn't been able to sleep at all, and it was catching up to her in ways different than Dean. Sam had managed to sleep in brief catnaps, but he always woke up sweating and scared. Chandre didn't want to know what his dreams were about and refused to touch him. She had could whiffs of whatever it was, and it left her white-faced with terror.

"Where exactly are we?" Sam asked.

Dean blew on his coffee, and shrugged. "Dunno."

"Dude, we really have to stop. The big stuff is yet to come, and you're exhausted. At least let me drive—"

"No."

"Look, I'm tired, you're beat, and Scarlet's so wiped out she stopped asking if we were there yet. Let's just stop for the night—"

"We'll be fine."

"What if the car breaks down? We'll freaking freeze to death before help even thinks about coming."

Chandre glanced up at Dean, and took a bite of her hamburger. It looked just like she felt—soggy, thin and sad. The lettuce was limp, and the fries were half-cooked and crunchy. Cross-country trips were no fun.

The dumpy waitress glanced over at them, but didn't wander over. She had other customers to take care of, and they looked pretty damn rough. Judging from the motorcycles clustered outside, blankets thrown over them to protect against the snow, they were hard-core bikers. At least, that's what all the grunge and tattoos indicated. And some were glancing over at their table, eyeing her up and down.

"Let's move on," she said suddenly. They were probably holed up in this town until spring, anyways.

"See?" Dean said. "She agrees with me. There's bound to be a town in a couple of miles anyway."

"Nope. Nothing," Sam said. "This is the last town for the next hundred miles."

"And you said you didn't know where we were," Dean snapped.

Chandre sighed. "Look, can we just leave?" she asked, running a hand through her hair and wishing there was a shower somewhere.

"You afraid of grungy bikers?" Dean asked.

"I just don't feel like fighting tonight."

"Hey babe, how 'bout getting it on with a _real_ man?" the biggest biker asked. He had advanced almost silently over to their table, a looming slab of flesh and muscle. Black leather encased his body, mixing with the smell of sweat and grease and the road and something else . . . semen. Eww. Someone needed a shower even more than she did.

Dean bristled. "How about you get your ugly face away from here?"

"Wanna fight, pretty boy?" Muscles asked.

Chandre groaned, and put her hand in her face. She did not want to have to deal with this hackneyed display of brawn and chauvinism.

"Dean, let's go," Sam said.

Dean was getting a glint in his eyes that Chandre didn't especially like. "Move over, Sammy," she whispered, and crawled over him out of the booth just as Dean stood up, frowning.

"Dean . . ." Sam began, but Muscles cut him off.

"You gonna let Fag Boy tell you what to do?" Muscles jeered, and his buddies laughed. The waitress at the counter did nothing but shiver and look away, and the aging cook did the same.

Dean erupted out of his seat. "You never call my brother that!" he snarled, lunging for Muscles, but Chandre caught him, Sam at her side almost instantly, and they wrestled him away.

A hand fell on her shoulder and jerked her away from the brothers, and she turned, stepping into the arms of Muscles. "Nice ass, babe," he said appreciatively, and squeezed.

She gave him a left hook that knocked him to the floor. "Do _not_ touch me," she snarled, and would have lunged in for the kill, but Sam and Dean got her into a pin and sprinted for the car.

She was still struggling, calling for Muscle's blood, when they shoved her in the middle and Dean started the car. She was cold and collected by the time they reached the outskirts of town. Snow was flying about them, clogging the windshields.

"What the fuck was that?" Dean demanded.

"I am _not_ an object," she growled, turning back to glower at the town.

"You didn't have to hit _me_," Dean snapped, and Chandre jerked her head up, refocusing her glower. "What am I, your fucking punching bag?"

"Dean—" Sam began, rubbing his head.

"You were fucking in my way!" Chandre yelped. "He insulted me!"

Dean pulled the car over, practically slamming on the brakes. She got pretty comfy with the dashboard and they were face-to-face, noses inches apart.

"Oh, and that justifies things? You punched him and were even."

"Even? Even! I don't think so! I would have—"

"Would have what? Gotten us all caught up in a fight?"

"So it's only okay if you start one? What happened to fucking equality?"

"There were fifteen of them!"

"So?"

"Could you have taken on all of them?"

"Fuck yes!"

"Dean . . ."

Dean threw off his seat belt and grabbed the front of her shirt, pulling her closer, their heads smashing together. "Don't ever do that again, understand?" he snarled.

"Oh, okay, _mom_," she snapped back, all of the tensions of the day running into her system. That biker had only been the warm-up.

"You wanna go?"

"Bring it." Each word was clipped in her mouth, tight, aggressive.

"Dean!"

Too late.

Chandre barreled into Dean before he could pull open the door and they rolled onto the snow. His fist smacked into her jaw, but she kneed him in the gut and they separated.

He charged her before she could do the same to him, and they collided in a pile of arms and legs, grunting as hits connected, each refusing to relent. Chandre bit back a cry of outrage when he used his greater weight to pin her down, hands pressed against her throat, and smacked her hands against his ears, bucking her body around and catching his head between her legs. Rolling, she ignored the snow tumbling down her shirt and charged Dean as he staggered to his feet, tackling her knees.

She was barely avoiding killing him when Sam screamed.

They froze and turned as one to stare as the younger brother clutched his head, body locked rigidly in place.

"Sammy!" Dean yelled, and they broke apart, reaching Sam at the same time. He was frozen, eyes rolled back in his head, a look of pain etched into his features.

"What the hell is wrong with him?" Dean asked, his voice wild, panicking.

Chandre caught the malevolence rolling off Sam, the vision reaching, but stretched out her hand anyways, touching Sam on the forehead.

A scream ripped through her throat as a hook caught her in the navel and jerked her into darkness.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Thanks for all the reviews, once again! ILuvPiratesSavvy, Ghostwriter, and Wolves-eyes, much appreciated. Sexybeast, don't worry, Chandre doesn't die this way. Haha, now I've got you all worried! I'd tell you how she does die, but . . . that would just spoil everything. Now you're all reeeally worried, huh? Just read on.

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Dean stared in shock as Scarlet crumpled silently, her knees buckling as she fell to Sammy's feet. His hands were already touching the same place she touched, but nothing happened. Whatever had gotten her and his little brother hadn't affected him.

The bad guys had gone somewhere he couldn't fight.

Turning, he stared about him, wondering what was going on. No outward chills, nothing but the snow coming down in little swirls, slowing as the temperature plummeted.

"Sammy?" he whispered, staring at his brother, touching his shoulder. "Sammy?"

0000000

_The wheel was clenched in her hands as she drove down the road. Night. She hated driving at night. Always had, always would. Especially along this highway._

_Her headlights bounced along the road as she hugged the curves, moving as quickly as she dared, and she felt the urge to go fast, push this old car to its limits—Chandre blinked, staring about her wildly, at her hands, her _hands_. They were older, wrinkled, veiny, the nails nibbled down past the quick. _

_She tried to turn her head, but couldn't move, could only stare straight ahead to the black and white of the road ahead, illuminated briefly before her before passing into darkness once more. _

_Chandre tried to stretch her hands, tried to move, but nothing moved. She was stuck in a body that definitely wasn't her own._

_"Sammy?" she thought, but no words came out of this foreign mouth. She tried to remember who Sammy was, tried to remember the brown haired boy, but everything was hazy. A name . . . "Shi?" Another face, angry grey eyes, but nothing._

_She was Simon McNulty. Fifty-four, two years from retiring and selling his hardware store in Drain and moving to California for some sun. He was sick of the rashes and athlete's foot of winter and the sunburns and rust of summer. Sick of the fickle Oregon weather that swept in from the coast like a wildcat and lodged in the coastal range until it had spent its last drops of rain._

_At this time of year the Umpqua was drunk and swollen from her yearly binge, her thick banks filled with muddy water that swirled like spoiled chocolate milk, debris milling about like backwash._

_A light bobbed before him, and he instantly turned off his brights, going for the low. The bobbing circle didn't grow closer, but drew him towards it, and he blinked, entranced._

Forwards, onwards_, the voice urge, and he smiled, seeing a bright sunny day ahead. Sun, sun, sun . . . forget the damn rain, never see a cloud again . . . _

_His car sped over the bank, enjoying two seconds of flight before plummeting like a stone into the muddy Umpqua. Simon/Chandre jerked to attention as he was tossed about inside the car, and his hands fumbled at the belt, reeling from a blow to the head that felt dizzy . . . shallow—_

_Cold water reached his toes, the rushing flow of the river pulling the car along and pushing into the confines, reaching his knees—_

_He struggled harder, tugging at the seat belt, praying for release. It snapped, and he hit the handle, but the door wouldn't budge._

_"Oh God, oh God," he gasped. "Mother, Father, sweet Jesus, Father God in Heaven help me."_

_The water swirled higher and the car hit a rock, sticking, frozen in the current as the water, strengthened by the rain, battered at the vehicle._

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Dean groaned with relief when Sammy opened his eyes, looked astounded and shocked.

"Dean," he gasped, pulling for breath, surprised to find himself alive and away from the darkness.

"Sammy, are you okay?" Dean asked.

"We have to get to Oregon," Sam panted, trying to get rid of the nagging feeling that someone was also there. A weight at his foot—he saw Scarlet's red hair, fallen over his feet, and yelled. "You freaking killed her!"

"No! S-She fell! Sammy, what happened?" Dean asked, turning to the next casualty.

Sam grasped Scarlet's hand, wincing at the icy flesh, and stared at her rolled back eyes. "I had a vision . . . how'd she fall? Is she okay? Why isn't she moving?"

"She didn't hit her head, I swear, okay? I wasn't going to kill her when we were fighting—it was just to relieve tension."

"Tension? You could have killed each . . ." Sam's voice trailed off as Scarlet spasmed in hands, her breath faltered, coming raggedly.

Dean leapt to his feet, sprinting for the car and salt.

000000000000

_Simon was numb from the waist down, and he splashed over to the passenger side, his breath rasping in his throat as he tugged at that door. One of the broken metal hinges caught his flannel shirt, and he had to jerk backwards before he was freed, but he was still trapped . . . trapped—_

Trapped!_ Chandre screamed, the water lapping at her/his mouth, filling it with brackish junk as Simon pressed his cheek against the roof of the car, trying to gasp for breath. She couldn't move this lunking body! She was stuck! What the hell had happened? Chandre moaned as the water rose to her neck, and then higher._

_Simon took a deep breath and dove, blind as he fumbled for the handle. The door opened, and he was pushed out of the car just as the current managed to shift it over, uprooting it from its rock, and he was thrown into the stream._

_Chandre grunted as her head smacked against something solid, and inhaled water—her body wouldn't move under her own control, and it flailed as Simon died and she died too, jerking and spasming, mouth opening and closing for that final breath—air . . . Shi . . . oh dear gods, no one said that it _hurt

00000000

"Step back a second," Dean said, and took Scarlet into his arms. Brown water was trickling from her mouth, and suddenly she coughed. A huge gob splashed into his face, but he wiped it away roughly as she gasped for breath like a woman drowning, her eyes opening and wild as she clawed for purchase—what she thought she was going to grab, he didn't know.

Pinning her down before she hurt something, he gathered her into his arms, the air growing colder about them. Her body trembled, and she buried her head into his shoulders, just the way he liked, but he was more concerned about her state of being.

"Scarlet?" he whispered, but something had really scared her. What had happened?

"Scarlet?" Sam asked, reaching to touch her, but she flinched away from him, burrowing closer to Dean, a soft cry escaping her throat.

"Oregon. We have to go to Oregon," she whispered. He eased her away from his shoulder, but her eyes were closed, and she looked like she was gathering her composition, but something had really freaked her out. And something that freaked out Scarlet was something that freaked him out too.

"Oregon?" Dean asked. How could they want to go? Could Sam have had one of his visions about their next job? But how could Scarlet have . . .

"Dean, we have to get in the car before someone catches frostbite," Sam said. "Or hypothermia."

Dean nodded, and stood up, pulling Scarlet with him. "I'll get some blankets." They'd be lucky to get out of this storm in one piece. He opened the door, and Scarlet eased herself onto the front seat, keeping her eyes closed. She wouldn't stop shaking.

Sam stopped him at the trunk, and murmured, "Dude, I had a vision."

"Really, Einstein?" Dean tugged some blankets out of the trunk and moved back towards her.

"I think Scarlet shared it."

"What? How?"

"I dunno. By touch?"

"Can that even happen?"

"I don't know, Dean."

Things were getting a little out of control. Two shinings in the same car? Would he be the next freaking Haley Joel? "Let's talk about it in the car."

Scarlet had stopped shivering by the time they reached the car, and he got scared when she looked at him dully. "Sammy, we have to take off her clothes."

"Dude!"

"She's got hypothermia."

Scarlet shuddered away from Sam's touch and shook her head. Dean sighed, and said, "Look, just drive, okay? I'll handle this."

He pushed Scarlet gently to the other side and stripped her down to her underwear as Sam started the car and got the heat blasting again. The clock came up on the dash, and he blinked. They had been out there for over an hour, plenty of time to get sick.

Scarlet attempted to help him with the buttons on her shirt, but she was moving sluggishly, and he wondered what exactly had gone on in that vision. Her skin was icy, but he shrugged off his shirt and pants, wrapping the blankets about them.

"Dude, this is so not the time," Sam groaned.

"Shut up," Scarlet managed, wrapping her arms around Dean's waist, trying to warm up.

"You know you always wanted to get into my pants," Dean teased, trying to find light in the situation, but Scarlet just shrugged deeper into his shoulder.

"I-I'm g-gun-na k-k-kill y-oo-u," she stuttered, voice mumbled into his flesh, and her lips felt really good against his skin.

"What was the vision about?" Dean asked.

Sam's hands tightened about the wheel, and his mouth was a thin line as he told Dean.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Once more, thanks for the reviews! Just a note: the places in Oregon that I mention are all real, with the exceptions of the things inside the towns and the buildings themselves, and the Umpqua is a real river, and it does kill people now and then. And Highway 38W is a real highway, the second or third most dangerous in the state. This more applies to the next chapter, but all of the people I mention are totally made up. Anyhow, I hope you enjoy this chapter! It'll probably be a while until the next, since I have midterms next week and life is a little chaotic.

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The sun was peeping over the horizon, clearing both snow-laden clouds and the Rockies, by the time they reached Reno, having shot north. Scarlet was dozing in Dean's arms, looking a lot better, but she had refused to let Sam touch her, even when Dean took his turn at the wheel.

Sam glanced over at her, watching her back move up and down, the blanket slipping lower, revealing pale skin . . . damn, she was thin. No wonder she had been eating so much. He decided to stop at the next town and hit up the closest fast food place and get her a bazillion burgers. Maybe he was just feeling guilty.

She hadn't said anything about what had happened to her, but he just _knew_ that somehow she had shared his vision. Yawning, he rubbed his eyes and peered down the road. The bobbing white light? Was there a mention of that in Dad's journal? He just couldn't remember. Maybe.

Scarlet shifted, and the blanket fell past her underwear. She made a mumbling noise and cracked an eye open. Her eyes snapped wide and she stared about her, looking around, seeming extremely curious and more than a little bit alarmed.

"How're you feeling?" Sam asked.

"Fine," she grunted, and stretched an arm into the backseat, rummaging around until she found a clean shirt. That was one of the things he liked about Scarlet—she wasn't much of a girly girl. She was pretty, but tougher than nails when it counted.

"What did you see in the vision?" he asked as she changed, and pulled on a pair of jeans. Hers, thankfully.

"I almost drowned," she said absently, with a shudder.

"Huh?"

She shook her head. "I don't want to talk about it."

Sam sighed, but decided against pressing her. She had almost drowned? The vision had been graphic and vivid, but he knew that he had been in no danger, just that that old man was going to die. Or wait . . . could she have been the man? How was that even possible? Then again, he had no idea why she had been sucked into his vision and Dean hadn't. Maybe it was because she wasn't completely human.

Dean shrugged awake, rolling his head to look about them, and muttered, "Find a motel and pull over."

"Dude, it's only another ten or fifteen hours of driving," Sam protested. Then again, this could be the last patch of sun they would see for a while. The one and only time he had been to Oregon was because Jess wanted to drive to Seattle, and they had stopped in Portland for the night.

"Go on," Scarlet muttered. "We need to get there." She had wrapped her arms about her knees and looked small and child-like. Sam was struck by how young she seemed, and wondered just how old she was. Certainly not more than twenty. Maybe nineteen? And she had probably killed more men than he had killed monsters.

"Pull over," Dean said, sitting up. "Reno, right? We need to stop here."

"What's up, dude?" Sam asked, keeping his eyes on the road, away from Scarlet.

"There's a good bar," Dean grinned. "And that money isn't going to last long."

Dean's phone rang, and Sam looked at him in surprise. Quickly his brother scrambled for it.

"Hello?"

Silence, broken by a strange static, and Dean handed it wordlessly over to Scarlet. "For you."

She took it, mystified. "Hello? Sh—Where are you? Are you okay? When—" and her face lit up for several seconds before closing completely. "Okay," she murmured, sounding defeated. "Uh-huh. That much? You can't do it? Oh . . . Yeah. Got it covered. When are you coming back?" The last her voice was filled with something that sounded like anguish, and she handed the phone back.

"Did he say when he'd be done?" Dean asked.

"He hung up," Scarlet said. "We need to stop here a while. Get money and all."

Sam stared at her. Ever since that vision she had just seemed . . . _broken_. Lost. He knew that something was up, but she didn't say a word as they found a diner and ordered. Scarlet barely touched her burger, and Sam stared, but let her pay the guy at the counter, hearing only her asked softly how far it was to Vegas.

Back in the car, Dean turned around and asked her, "What's going on?"

"Huh?" Her face was perfectly blank.

"What did he want?" Sam asked.

"Nothing." She pointed at a bar. "That looks like a good place to start."

"It's nine in the morning. No bar is open at that hour," Sam pointed out.

"Well, when it _opens_," Scarlet said, sounding a little more like her old self. "I need to leave for a while."

"What?" Dean asked, his voice rising.

"I need to leave for a while. Say eight hours."

"And where are you going?" Dean asked, sounding a little dangerous.

Her face was even blanker. "Out."

"Are you killing anyone?"

She smiled slightly, seeming even more like herself. "And what makes you think I'd do something like that? I'll meet you here, at that bar, in eight hours."

"How do you think we'll just wait for you?" Dean asked, staring at her with narrowed eyes. "I might just take off and leave."

"Just give me eight hours, okay?"

"Fine." Dean looked extremely unhappy. "You've got until three and then we're gone. We have to get to Oregon."

"Very well." She slid out of the car, and was gone. Dean wrapped his blanket tighter about himself, and they stared as she grabbed her backpack from the trunk and did one of her vanishing acts.

"What the hell do you think she's doing?" Sam asked. He already had a pretty good idea, but he thought Dean's input might be worthwhile. "Think she's gone for good?"

"No." Dean's jaw clenched and he stared mulishly at the spot she had disappeared from, as if willing her back. "She'll be back. She'd better be back."

"That was Striker on the phone, wasn't it? And he wanted her to do something."

"Probably kill some poor bastard."

"I can't believe you just her go do that!" Sam snapped, feeling irritated. "She's, well, she's a freaking monster! Killing someone? How can you be so nonchalant about it?"

Dean shrugged, and lowered his eyes. "She's not a bad person," he said.

"She's a murderer." Personally, Sam actually liked Scarlet, but if she was one of the bad guys . . .

"She's fine. We've had this conversation, Sammy. She can be trusted. Now leave me alone—I'm going back to sleep."

"But she's going to kill someone—"

"Sammy, that's what she _does_, all right? We kill things too—"

"Not people."

"Okay . . . but maybe the people she kills are bad."

"She's still killing someone."

Dean sighed. "Look, just shut up so I can sleep. I don't want to talk about it."

Sam growled with frustration. How could his brother not see that Scarlet wasn't the most moral of creatures? Then again, neither were they, but at least he had never killed another human being. Demonically possessed human beings yes, and he _had_ hurt people, but well, it had always been for the better good. The ridding of evil, right?

So why did he feel like everything was turning a nebulous shade of grey?

"Dude, just chill. I can freaking _hear_ you think," Dean grumbled. "For once in your life, will you just let it _go_?"

Sam glared at the cocoon of blankets that his brother was buried under, and felt like he was fighting a losing battle. Between visions that felt like he was being pummeled by a hammer to Scarlet to Dean, he was going nuts. Or maybe he had already crossed the line.

It had been so simple when Jess was alive . . .

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It turned out that the bar was also a strip club. Dean was happier than spit, but his spirits fell when they learned that the dancers only started at five. So they slowly drained their beers and played a couple games of pool. Dean played a game every hour or so, cycling through the customers as stealthily as he could, and by two fifty-eight had made close to four hundred dollars.

Sam had just sat back at the bar and talked to the bartender, who had graduated from Yale, served in the Gulf War as a medic and then squandered a potentially successful career as a surgeon to bartend in Reno. The pay wasn't all that great, but Sam was happy to know that lots of patients were being saved from the shock of being operated on by a man with a naked woman tattooed on his forearm.

Dean ambled up to the bar, his gaze riveted on his watch. Probably counting down the seconds.

Sam wondered just how badly his brother wanted to get rid of Scarlet. They fought an awful lot, although he wasn't sure if Dean was joking or serious, and he had seriously thought that they were going to kill each other the night before.

"I'm leaving in thirty seconds," Dean grumbled, his good mood completely gone.

Sam paid the bartender, and gave the man a smile before following Dean out to the car. Scarlet was nowhere in sight.

"Ten seconds."

Dean leaned against the hood of the Impala, a smirk on his face.

"Dude, you're freaking nuts," Sam sighed.

"Four. Three. Two. O—"

"Looking for me?" Scarlet drawled at his elbow, and Dean jerked back with a yelp. Sam jumped too, his gun half-drawn before he realize who it was. Checking to make sure that no one had seen him, he tucked it away.

"Where the fuck were you?" Dean growled.

Scarlet glanced at her watch. "I've got two minutes to go." A bruise was forming on her jaw, mulishly spreading, and she was even paler than normal. Her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed, as though she had put something bad into them. Or someone had sprayed something nasty in there.

"Not by my watch. Get in the car."

Scarlet tossed her bag in the trunk and almost collapsed into the backseat, and they drove off.

She sat huddled and quiet as they drove straight to Oregon, and didn't seem to sleep at all. At least, she was never sleeping when Sam glanced back. Her eyes had taken on a glazed look, with only the steady movement of her chest showing she was alive.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Sorry it's taken me so long to put this sucker up, but it was midterms this week, and now I've got four hours of sitting on my ass bored to tears . . ; literally. But you don't need to know that. Thanks for the reviews, everyone, and enjoy chapter 8!

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Oregon greeted them with rain. Chandre wasn't quite certain what to expect, but it seemed that this end of the country was a lot . . . greener. After the long expanse of desert and the white-capped mountains and rolling hills. The trees were . . . massive. She had seen huge trees before, but it had been a while, and these seemed to touch the sky.

They stopped for several hours on a lonely stretch of road just after worst of mountain driving, where Dean had been white-knuckled and wide-eyed, on the alert for black ice and hidden snow-patches. They hadn't had snow tires or chains and had had some pretty scary spinouts.

It was almost a miracle that they made it to the valley, and Chandre crawled into the front seat when they stopped, cold and miserable. Sam had leaned back against his seat almost as soon as they stopped, looking just as miserable as she felt, and Dean stared silently out ahead at the road stretching before them.

She didn't want to think about the job earlier that day—or maybe it was another lifetime, they had been in the car so long—and she didn't want to talk about it. Sam hadn't spoken to her at all, but she had felt the condemnation and judgment oozing from his mind. He probably had been told she was an assassin. Dean had been a brick wall to her, but she knew that he hated what she was.

Hell, she hated what she was. It wasn't like it had been her choice she was an assassin. It wasn't even Shi's choice, either. But they had to do it. The money was good, the cause was . . . iffy, and the organization they worked for would utterly annihilate them if they even though about leaving. Her mind wandered to the various places she and Shi could go . . . and knew in the pit of her stomach that they would be found and dragged back.

Not that she hated working for a mercenary company, as she loved her commander—she just didn't like killing people. She gave her targets a quick, practically painless death, and that was that. That was why she was good, and that was why Shi was good too. He might be able to torture someone in the worst ways, but it blackened his soul, and he knew it and hated it just as much as she did.

Dean sighed, drawing her to the here and now. "What's the urgency level of getting there, do you think?" he asked, voice soft to avoid waking up Sam.

"Pretty urgent," she replied, just as soft. "How many have died?"

"Ten over the past three years. Seven in the past two months." Dean sighed again. "They all said it was drunk driving, bad weather conditions. The road—uh, Highway 38W—is treacherous."

"No survivors?"

"Nope."

"How much farther?"

Dean shrugged. "Another couple of hours, maybe."

"Where are we staying?"

"Probably on the road. I doubt there's gonna be a hotel around."

Dean started the Impala. Sam stirred, but didn't wake. "We just need to get here."

"I should drive, then."

He stared at her like she was nuts. Well, no one had ever called her sane. "You freaking kill a man and you ask me if you can drive? I don't think so."

Chandre sighed. "Then I'll keep you awake."

They drove, merging onto a freeway called I-5 within the next hour, finally sliding south to the scene of the crime—the Umpqua River. Sam woke up by that time and Chandre took a turn to sleep, her head cushioned in Dean's lap, slightly cramped with the steering wheel, and they reached Scottsburg.

Few people were on the road, although the first thing Chandre noticed was the rain. It had been raining when they crossed the Cascades, but now it was just . . . raining. It was more than depressing, like the rain was leeching the color from everything, turning it into a bland grey.

Scottsburg was a small town, the kind where you stood on one side, took a step, and were out of the town limits. There were just a couple of houses, a small city hall that had been closed down thirty-five years ago, a tiny convenience store, one restaurant, and two churches—Episcopalian and Baptist, standing opposing each other in silent battle. Chandre wasn't sure exactly what the significance of it all was, but it didn't seem all that fun.

Dean perused over the newspaper, and tapped on a story. He had scurried out to retrieve it from a small stand in front of the store and then scrambled back inside, already drenched. "The first death is Maggie Thomas—at least, that's the first they mention in this story. This is with um, your Simon McNulty. Anyhow, Maggie was seventeen, just got her license, and whizzed into a huge slide and flew into the river."

"Any trend in the deaths?" Sam asked. There was no Internet service here so they were out of luck. Chandre felt like she had stepped back into time, or maybe just to her home, where electricity didn't work.

"They all drowned in the river."

"How long has it been raining for?" Chandre asked. "The river's pretty damn high."

Dean turned the paper over, searching. "Uh . . . forty-three days. Damn. I do not want to live here."

"When's Simon's funeral?"

"They haven't recovered the body, but he's probably dead, if Sam's vision was true." Chandre said nothing, so Dean continued, "Chuck Weinerman's service is today. He was the sixth."

"Then we'll attend," Sam said. "Distant relatives probably won't work in a town this small, and neither will FBI. Uh . . . construction safely experts? We could be examining the road and offering condolences to the grieving."

"You are so cold," Chandre said. "That's the most impersonal thing in the world."

Sam raised an eyebrow at her. Oh yeah, he knew what she was. "Okay, baring some jobs," she amended. "Should we drive out to the scenes of the deaths?"

There was nothing there, aside from a ton of flowers, a cross, and occasionally a pair of tire tracks and skid marks. Nothing to indicate anything supernatural, and Chandre was beginning to feel a little put out when Dean's EMF or EMP reader or whatever it was didn't pick up anything. Even Sam felt nothing. She felt a trembling—more like a shiver on her back, like something was watching, but it wasn't enough to warrant the attention of the brothers.

It was noon when they came into town, and Chandre watched as the brothers changed into black suits to go to the funeral. She'd stay behind and guard the gear, snooping around for clues.

The records were still kept in the town hall, and if she pretended to be a nosy reporter . . . her lips twisted into a grin. While the boys changed, she pulled out some decent clothes, wishing for something that wasn't slutty or just regular, and getting her wish denied. She put on the cleanest and most respectable of her things, found a pad of paper, shrugged into a waterproof jacket and watched as the Impala drove away to the service. Her bruise was fading away, although she was stiffer than the seven freaking hells combined.

Back in the early 1900s the town hall had doubled as a school, and there were still remnants of its old days. Staring down at the worn wood floors, she looked about her, nose itching from the dust.

"Hello?" she called, jumping as her voice echoed back at her, almost pulling out one of her ever present knives. "Anyone here?" Getting no answer, she shrugged, looked around and found several old newspapers scattered about.

The names of the recently deceased were circled on one paper, along with the towns they had come from. Patrick Norton, Eugene; Don Wagner, Drain; Margaret Thomas, Scottsburg; David Franks, Elkton; Valerie Duncan, Elkton; Simon McNulty, Scottsburg; and Chuck Weinerman, also from Scottsburg. All of the dead were middle-aged or older, all save Maggie. Chandre frowned at that. It seemed a little . . . odd.

She heard footsteps in the building, coming towards her, but didn't turn around until a young woman asked, "Can I help you?"

"Yeah," Chandre said, facing the girl. She had to be younger or around her own age, and she must have just come in from the rain, since her windbreaker was slick. "I'm investigating the deaths hereabouts."

The girl's face closed really fast. "You a cop?" she asked, doubtful.

"No. Sally Resdin from the Register-Guard," Chandre said perkily, giving the name of the paper on the table. She stuck out her hand, but the girl didn't take it to shake. Dropping it and feeling a little miffed, she asked, "So . . . do you know anything about the deaths? Any thoughts?"

"I don't know anything," the girl replied. Her brown hair was pulled up in a loose ponytail, and Chandre supposed she was pretty, in a . . . bland sort of way. "It's tragic." Something in her tone, or her way of voice, indicated that she didn't care. There was something surprisingly . . . pleased . . . about something. Chandre couldn't catch it, and wished that she was a stronger telepath, then quickly deleted that wish. She didn't want to be a telepath period.

"Seven deaths, all in this area. That is tragic," Chandre said, feeling like she was stating the obvious. "Uh, can you tell me who I can talk to about it?"

"What's your story on?"

"I'm doing a memoir on the deceased, since so many died. Maybe I'll call it the 'Haunted Highway,' or something." The girl didn't look too thrilled. Great, Chandre thought, just great. If only it had been a man who had walked in . . . men she could deal with. Women were a touch harder.

"Did you know any of the deceased? Simon McNulty? He was from around here. Uh, Maggie Thomas?" At the last name, the girl tensed, and her mind radiated a roiling mass of emotion, so much that Chandre almost took a step back as hate/jealousy/fear/satisfaction rolled through her damaged shields.

Slamming the shields as high as she could, she swallowed, trying to act as normal as possible, and asked, "Know anything about her? She was around your age."

"Maggie? No, she was a cheerleader. I don't hang in those circles," the girl replied, but her gaze was wary, as if she suspected something. "You should ask around in the diner. They might know something. Darryl was Maggie's boyfriend. He's the cook."

"Thanks," Chandre said. Her voice was thin even to her own ears. What the fuck was wrong with her? "Can I get your name?"

The girl squinted, as if contemplating, but Chandre caught nothing from her mind. Not that she was trying or anything. After almost being blasted unconscious by that initial burst, her shields weren't lowering for anything. "Molly Simons," she admitted, grudgingly.

"Thank you Molly, and have a nice day," Chandre replied, and stepped around the girl, moving cautiously. If the little twerp so much as twitched, she'd stick a knife in between her ribs.

The rain was still coming down as she tramped across the road to the diner, mindful of the cars that whizzed past, splattering muddy water as they went. There was no sign of the boys or the car.

The diner—or restaurant—aptly named "Sam's Chow," was near crowded, mostly with men and women dressed in black, although the occasional red-and-black checked shirt prevailed. Loggers rained out for the day, judging by their caulk boots and muddy raingear.

The chatter was loud when she entered, and slightly quieter, as the group nearest took in this stranger—this very obvious stranger. Chandre pushed back a strand of red hair and walked towards the counter as the conversation restarted with belated loudness, as if they didn't want her to realize that they had been staring.

A woman in her late forties staffed the register, and she squinted up at the newcomer through dirty glasses. "Yeah?"

"I was wondering if I could speak with Darryl. He's the cook here?" Chandre asked.

"Who're you?" the woman asked, her face closing just as fast as Molly's had.

"Sally Resdin from the Register-Guard. I'm doing a story on the deaths—a humanity piece. Maggie's article will be featured," Chandre said.

"Have you spoken with her parents yet?" the woman asked, looking belligerent.

"I'd like to have a chat with Darryl first, if you could point him out to me—"

"Darryl's at the funeral." Snappish, final. The woman was sending definite dislike vibes. Chandre didn't blame the woman. If a pretty girl had walked in and started nosing her business in her affairs, Chandre would get pretty annoyed too. Then again, that was unlikely to happen to her. If a girl tried to hook up with Shi, she'd freaking kick the bitch's ass. Admittedly, she and Shi were in an open relationship, but still. A girl had to have priorities.

"Oh. When's the funeral over?"

"Two. Would you like something to eat?" It was like the woman was offering out a slug, distasteful and disgusting, something meant to be gotten rid of quickly.

"No thank you," Chandre replied, and caught the thoughts from the corner of the woman's mind—This little city-slut thinks she's better than all of us, sipping her five dollar lattes and eating her vegan meals—and began to wonder just what the hell was in the water, to have so many strong broadcasters.

Turning, she looked up and saw Sam and Dean enter the room. They spotted her pretty quickly, and she walked out, a slight frown on her face. She barely noticed Molly, standing under the eaves of the old town hall, hood up against the rain, glowering at her as she climbed into the car.

"What did you find?" Sam asked.

Chandre sighed. "A shitload of nothing. These people don't exactly like reporters."

"Or safety consultants," Dean added.

"I want to go to Maggie's high school," Chandre said suddenly.

"You found something?" Dean asked.

"Maybe."

"Hey, Geek Boy, what school district is Scottsburg in?" Dean asked.

Sam glared at him, but replied, "District 36." At Dean's patient stare, he added, "Elkton."

"Then to Elkton we go."

"I want to do it at night," Chandre said.

The boys turned to her, Dean only slightly, as he was still looking at the road. "Pardon?"

"I need to get in during the night. They won't tell me what I need to know."

"And what do you need to know?" Sam asked.

"What did you guys find out at the funeral?" Chandre asked.

Sam scowled at her avoidance of the question. "Nothing, other than all of the dead were excellent drivers. So you're going to break into a school? Great. Just great."

"You guys break and enter all the time," Chandre pointed out.

"It's different," Sam said.

"Geez man, don't be so moody," Dean said. "Look, at night I want to wait around on the road and watch for a strange bobbing thing anyways. While she's looking, I'll wait and you can stay with me."

"Actually, I'd like to talk to Maggie's family," Sam said. "And hang around the diner and see if anything happens there. There's something about this town I don't like."

Dean glanced a look at his brother. "Another shining thing?"

"No . . . just a . . . gut feeling."

"Gut feeling or whatever, drop me off in the woods somewhere," Chandre said. She was feeling jumpy, edgy, ready to go. After a job she was always like that, no matter how tiring it had been. Dean drove out to Elkton, and she changed in the backseat, dressing in her black sneak clothes—which had splotches of blood on them from the job. She had packed those in her bag, of course—they were one of her four sets of clothing. A poor selection, but she had gotten by with worse. All she had to do was some laundry every week or so and she was good. Sliding her battered jacket about her shoulders, she jumped out of the car when Dean pulled over.

He rolled down his window and fixed her with a glare that could have frozen water. "I'll meet you right here at ten, got that?"

Chandre glanced at her watch. It was four thirty, and from the street sign she had ten miles to go before hitting the town limits. "Very well."

"Don't kill anyone," Sam said, leaning over to see her.

Chandre rolled her eyes. "What do you think I am, a freaking barbarian?"

"Yeah," the boys chorused, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. She glowered, and tramped into the woods, sliding into the forest and wishing herself invisible.

Not that that ever worked, but just once she wanted to vanish—never be seen again. To dip into the air and fly . . . the sound of the Umpqua brought her back, the full banks gushing and roaring as the white water current swept by her. She shuddered, and moved on, the rain soon drenching her from head to toe.

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Getting into the high school was simple enough; the alarm was almost comically easy to bypass, and everyone was gone from the building save for the custodian, and he took no notice of her.

Sneaking into the secretary's office, she looked around for a file cabinet, and smirked happily. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. The phrase brought a slight giggle. Dean had said it once.

Humming to herself, one ear tuned for the custodian, she rifled through the various files, her maglight held in her mouth, pausing when she reached Maggie's. The folder held the accomplishments of a stellar athlete (the school's phrasing, not hers—cheerleading was not a sport), and an amazing student. Glancing at the file, Chandre whistled. Not to mention a pretty girl. Little Maggie was the typical blond haired, blue-eyed beauty, and reading between the lines of her teacher's comments, she was also very popular. The leader of the cool group, perhaps?

And judging from Molly's reaction, not well liked by some of the other girls. Or the unpopular? Hmm.

Finding Darryl's folder, she skimmed through it. Darryl was also a pretty good looking guy, and checking over the pictures of the class photo, he was the best looking in the bunch. No wonder Maggie had attached herself to him—attractive people tended to group together. Of course, they all tended to have the collective intelligence of a gnat, but that wasn't her problem.

Where Maggie was the captain of the cheerleading team, Darryl was the captain of the football, basketball and track (even though Elkton did not have an actual track) teams. His prowess clearly lied in his looks and muscles, as his transcript wasn't all that great. Mostly Cs, an occasional B scattered around.

The perfect couple.

Chandre pursed her lips and hunted around, finally finding Molly's file. She was also seventeen, a senior, but her folder was mediocre. No athletics, and she was said to be pretty close-lipped. Her last name was Wagner, making her a relation to one of the deceased. Chandre skimmed further. Seemed the address was the same too. Her father? No . . . uncle, probably. Curiouser and curiouser.

There were two other Wagners in the school, and both were as mediocre and bland as Molly was—which seemed interesting, especially with the jolt of emotion Chandre had received from the girl.

Something didn't seem right, but she couldn't place it. Hearing a noise outside the door she clicked off her maglight and crouched behind the desk after sliding the file cabinet soundlessly.

Footsteps wandered past, idly checking the door, and then the custodian walked off. Chandre waited ten seconds, and clicked her light back on. A further perusal didn't reveal anything more than that she wanted to go to the houses of the kids. Finding a map in one of the phone books, she memorized it and wrote the addresses of the three students she wanted in a small notebook of hers.

The flashlight went out, and she left the room, leaving it exactly as she had before. Checking her watch as she crept across the highway and into the woods, she jolted. Nine-forty. Too bad she didn't have a phone, because she wasn't going to meet up with Dean until she had visited those houses. Sam might be questioning the parents of poor Maggie, but she wanted a closer look.

Dean would just have to wait until she was done.

A smirk formed on her lips. She enjoyed bugging him, and it was so easy.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Thanks so much for putting this story on alerts and favorites and writing reviews. You guys rock my socks (of course, i don't like socks . . . but that's beside the point).

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Dean drummed his fingers on the dashboard of the Impala, impatiently waiting for Scarlet to appear. Nine-fifty-nine. No sign of her. Grumbling to himself, he turned the radio on louder, wincing at the static of the poor reception. Sam had broken his cassette player two days ago, and it about killed him.

"Come on, Scarlet," he whispered, looking around in the woods to watch her appear. He hated that stupid vanishing trick she did—it drove him nuts. Okay, he admitted, everything about Scarlet drove him nuts.

He glanced at dash again. Ten oh five. She was freaking late. Maybe he should just drive off and leave her there—his eyes caught sight of a figure walking along the side of the highway. As she drew closer, he saw that it was Scarlet. She was wearing faded jeans and a form-fitting top under a heavy jacket, not the black apparel she had put on to sneak around in. Dean grunted. Did she have to steal everything? Needless to say, she looked pretty good in it.

He rolled down the window and snapped, "You're late."

She averted her eyes and flushed, looking embarrassed. What the hell? Dean thought to himself. She had been acting so weird lately. "Get in, will you?"

She slid into the front seat, smelling of rain and forest. Her red hair was plastered to her skull, but her skin had a rosy tint—and she looked more filled out.

Dean shook his head. He shouldn't be thinking about her in that way. He rarely established limits for himself, but Scarlet was definitely one of those places he did not want to venture. Or should not, because he sure as hell _wanted_ to go there.

"Where the fuck were you?" he asked, starting the car.

"I had to do something," she said, her eyes on him.

Just like her. He growled, and turned to glare at her. "Like what?"

She leaned forwards, her breath against his cheek, and kissed him. Startled, he jerked back. "What the fuck was that for?" he yelped. "What about Striker?"

She moved closer, breasts—he hadn't thought her tits were that big. They _strained_ through her thin shirt, aching for him to touch them. "What about him?" she murmured, and kissed him again. He groaned, low in his throat, and kissed her back, tasting her sweet lips and the chapstick she had put on.

His hands were in her pants and hers were taking off his jacket before he reached over and shut off the car. Sammy could wait. This was too good.

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Sam waved at the Thomas family and left the house, prepared to walk the three miles back to town. Dean was half an hour late, and he was done waiting. The rain thudded against the hood of his sweater, and pretty soon it was completely soaked and dripping down the back of his neck.

"Hey," someone said, appearing right beside him, and he jumped, letting out a yell and falling into a defensive stance. Scarlet snickered, even though she looked exhausted. Dirt smeared her face, probably to blend in with her surroundings, and her black clothes were dirty, although he couldn't tell that clearly in the darkness.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Sam asked, glancing about them. Luckily he had gone past the driveway and was on the road. "I thought you were meeting Dean."

She looked sideways. "Uh, yeah, about that. I needed to look at some houses—"

"You broke into their house? _Scarlet,_" Sam groaned.

She pulled out a diary from inside her knapsack. "Thanks for distracting them. But look what I found. It's so revealing, too. Turns out, little Maggie was something of a bitch. And Darryl? Well, I looked at his house, and found that he was screwing every girl in the school behind Maggie's back . . . although, in such a small school word _does_ get around."

"Scarlet, you broke into their house," Sam protested, knowing it was a lost cause. The girl just didn't know right from wrong. At least she seemed to have recovered from sharing his vision, even if there were deep circles under her eyes.

She shook her head. "'Break' is such an aggressive word. I _snuck_ in. And there's one last house to go. Molly Wagner's."

"Who the hell is Molly Wagner?"

"This girl who cornered me in the town hall. There's something . . . off about her."

"'Off'? As in, supernatural off?"

She shrugged. "I just don't know. But there's one thing I know, and that's that I'm going into her house. Are you coming?"

"Coming?"

She stuck the diary back into her bag before it could get any wetter. "Yeah, coming. Dean can wait."

"He's gonna be so mad at us."

"When isn't he?"

Sam thought a moment. "Good point. Where's her house?" He couldn't believe he was going through with this.

"Four miles down this road."

"Let's go." As they walked, he glanced down at his watch. Ten-thirteen. Dean was going to be so pissed with them. This definitely broke rule number two: always alert your partner to any change in the plans. He'd call when they got to the house. No need to have Dean come barreling in with the Impala when this was a sneaking operation. Besides, a part of him wanted to see Scarlet in operation.


	10. Chapter 10

Sam stared at the house, sitting in the middle of a clearing, trees all around with a barn and a shed squatting behind a pair of trees. He was getting serious X-file vibes, but Scarlet was crouched beside him looking completely unperturbed. She had a pair of nightvision binoculars that had to have cost more money than he had ever seen in his entire life, and it had come from her knapsack. He was slightly afraid to ask if she had gotten them legitimately or not, and decided that he didn't want to know.

"So when are we going in?" Sam asked.

"I'm going in. You're staying out here," she replied in a soft voice slightly above a whisper.

"And why is that?"

"Because you sound like a herd of elephants when you try to sneak around." She pointed. "There. I think that's Molly's room. Unfortunately, there're people around but—" she paused as the front door opened and two men came out.

They had on typical hillbilly gear—flannel shirts under rainslickers, but what caught Sam's eye was that they each carried a shotgun in their hands. Scarlet had stilled completely, watching as they entered the barn.

"What the hell . . . ?" Sam asked, but she didn't answer.

"Stay there," she whispered after several minutes of watching. The two men still hadn't come out. "If I'm not back in twenty minutes, call Dean."

He nodded, not liking this at all. He was cold, wet, and there was definitely something weird going on in the barn. Turning to Scarlet, he muffled a groan. She was gone, but she had left her knapsack in place, the goggles on top.

Sam was tempted to go through it, but he stayed put and watched through the goggles. Two more men and a woman exited and went into the barn, but Scarlet was no where in sight.

He watched for fifteen minutes, then glanced at his watch. Eleven-forty-three. Dean was going to go ballistic. Well, he probably already was.

His teeth began to chatter, and he felt the waves of a headache coming on when he saw two of the men come from around the back of the barn, dragging a limp form along with them.

_Shit, shit, shit_, he thought, not able to see who it was.

Creepy shit indeed—he couldn't tell if it was Scarlet or not. He needed Dean.

Pulling out his phone, he quickly dialed and waited impatiently as it rang four times.

"Yeah?" came a very disgruntled reply as Dean answered. He sounded pissed but very . . . relaxed. "Goddamn, Sammy, where the hell are you?"

"Outside Molly Wagner's house."

"Where? Why?"

"Uh, Scarlet said she had—"

"Scarlet? What the hell are you talking about, bro?" Dean sounded confused.

"I'm with Scarlet and she went into this house—"

"Scarlet's with me . . . oh shit," Dean trailed off, and it sounded like the phone was dropped. There was a grunt, and it sounded like something fell.

"Dean!" Sam hissed, afraid to raise his voice, and the line went dead. He dialed again, frantically, but no one picked up.

Rocking back on his heels, he looked out at the house and barn. Something was definitely going on out there. Breathing out a sigh, he dug through Scarlet's knapsack, all the while thinking quickly.

Dean had said Scarlet was right there with him, but he was definitely with her at that moment—_two_ Scarlets? What the hell? It stood to reason that one of them was a shapeshifter, but which was the real one? He had thought that the Scarlet who had gone to investigate the house was real, but if the shapeshifter was anything like the one Dean had killed then it wouldn't really matter as it could pick up telepathic images or whatever.

Scarlet had a lot of interesting things in her bag, mostly weapons, and he pulled out a 9mm Beretta, surprised to see that it had a full clip. There were other weapons, and some weird claw things, all stored neatly in various pouches, but he only slid a dagger into his boot and stored the bag under a bush and moved towards the barn as stealthily as he could.

He was almost at the barn when he heard a twig snap behind him. Turning, his eyes widened as a shovel smacked into his forehead, knocking him out.

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Chandre reached the barn almost easier than she had thought, and looked around for a way in. She had decided that she wanted to see what was going on in the barn more than what was inside the house. Spotting an open window one story up, she scrambled up one of the nearby trees and crawled inside after making sure that no one was in the room.

Landing silently in the dark room, she found herself in a loft, surrounded by musty-smelling hay and the sound of soft chanting. The floor groaned slightly, and she shifted until it stopped, realizing that the floor was half-rotted. The reek of blood and a coppery tang of magic hit her, and she stifled a cough, reeling backwards until she bumped into the wall. What the hell was going on?

Moving towards the edge of the loft, she got down onto her belly and wiggled forwards until she could see. The floor creaked again, but she had spread her weight out enough that it should hold her. Even so, it shook slightly, but the chanting voices never paused.

Peering over the edge, she saw four naked men and one woman standing over a limp figure who was bound and gagged, a hood covered his features. The naked people weren't the kind of people she would ever want to see naked, with bulges of fat and sagging parts, but they had smeared a reddish paint over their bodies—she froze, recognizing blood. Two other people stood apart from the group, holding weapons and wearing clothes.

The bound person was bleeding from various cuts, and the blood had been smeared all over his body. Whimpers came up from the hood, cutting through the chanting at times, and she began to move back, but the floor creaked and the boards gave away.

She bit back a yelp as she fell to the ground in a pile, debris raining down on top of her, and struggled to her feet, but the barrel of a shotgun stopped her.

The chanting never ceased.

"Looks like we got a live one, Bert," the man said. "Don't even think about moving, missy." Chandre froze, staring at the barrel of the gun, into the two dark holes. She might be good, but she couldn't dodge that.

Sam would call Dean when she was too late, she knew, and hopefully he wouldn't come out here, because this was, this was bad. Real bad. She didn't recognize the ritual, but it dealt with blood and what looked to be a sacrifice.

"Isn't this the reporter that was snooping around town?" the other asked.

"Soon to be a dead reporter," the first replied. The last thing Chandre saw was the figure in the center of the circle writhing, bubbles forming under his skin and screams droning out the chanting, before the second man brought the butt of his shotgun against the back of her head, and she dropped like a sack of oats to the dirt floor.


	11. Chapter 11

Voices drifted above her, tugging her towards consciousness insistently, and she cracked open her eyes, squinting as a harsh light dazzled her.

"She's awake," someone said. A man, towards her right. "Molly, this don't look like no reporter."

"She was carrying knives." That was Molly—Chandre could recognize her voice. "The man I came in with said her name was Scarlet."

"You took her form." Another man, this one to her left.

"She's a slut anyways," Molly whined, and a boot connected with Chandre's side. She grunted, and her eyes came all the way open. She was bound at her wrists and ankles, her wrists tied to a tractor and her feet to something just as immobile, stretched to an almost painful position. "I mean—"

"There's not explaining, Molly," the second man said. "You took her form. That's against the rules."

"Besides, didn't you want to fuck that Darryl boy?"

"The other was better," Molly replied, and her voice was petulant, childish. Chandre caught on really fast, and her face paled. Molly was a shapeshifter, which was probably why she had had such strong emotions, and had done something to . . . Dean? Oh fuck. Chandre almost winced.

The man to her right leaned down and grabbed her chin, rotating her head a painful hundred degrees to face him. His stale breath washed her face, and she blinked, trying to see straight. These people were all going to die, pretty fucking soon.

"Who the hell are you, girl?" he asked, and his breath was of bad beer and sauerkraut.

Chandre spat in his face, smelling the reek of blood magic on him. He roared in outrage and kicked her, sending her body jerking against the ropes, her arms and legs pulled. They had removed her boots, the bastards, and her ankles were chafed.

The second man grabbed her by the hair and yanked back. She let out a yowl and struggled furiously against her bonds, knowing that there probably wasn't a good way to break them, and it wasn't all that great of an idea until she had a sense of where Dean and Sam were.

A girl moved into view and she froze, staring dumbstruck at—herself. She hadn't realized she had gotten that thin over the past month or so, or that her hair was that . . . red. Her breasts were too big, and the eyes—those were wrong. The eyes were normal.

"Bitch," Chandre hissed, straining against her bonds towards Molly. "When I get out of here—"

Molly smirked—and having her own face smirking at her was unnerving. "Jealous that I fucked your boyfriend?" she leered. "He was pretty good. I think I might just keep him—after we sacrifice you, of course."

"Molly, I told you about your blabbin' mouth," the second man warned. He leaned into view, and his face was ugly, just as Chandre expected after hearing his voice. "You're gonna die, girl," he said. "You know too damn much and the river must be appeased."

"Don't tell her anything," the first man snapped. He swung his boot at her, and she grunted when it hit her in her unprotected stomach, gagging at the pain. "Let's go," he said, and they left, Molly glancing back at her with a satisfied leer. Their footsteps crunched as they walked away.

When the stars dancing in front of her subsided, Chandre glanced around and began to work at the bonds on her wrists. The limbs were chafed, raw and bleeding, but she continued to tug at the bonds, wondering just what the hell was going on. Closing her mind to the pain, she dislocated her thumbs and worked her hands free of the ropes, then popped the joints back into place and removed the bonds at her feet.

Standing shakily, her vision blackening at random points, she stepped forwards, but lurched backwards as her feet alit on fire, pierced by glass shards, which had been scattered about the floor of the barn. Chandre sat down abruptly, biting her lip to keep from screaming. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and she looked around, trying for anything to get rid of the pain as she removed the shards from her feet.

Footsteps neared, and she glanced up and around sharply as the first man swung around the corner and spotted her. His lips twisted into a snarl and he raised the shotgun at her. Chandre moved into a crouch, her breath steady. This she could fight.

"Move and I shoot," the man warned, and, raising his voice, called, "Gus, Danny, get your asses over here! The girl escaped."

More footsteps crunched over and she glanced from side to side, despairing. She had to escape, but she didn't want Dean and Sam to get hurt even more. Then again, they could take care of themselves.

Gus and Danny swung around the corner and closed in on her. As soon as the first man's shot of her was obstructed she erupted into motion, smashing into the younger man (possibly Danny?) and slamming her elbow into his gut. The second man wrapped his arms around her waist but she raked her foot down along his shin and attempted to crush his instep.

He was wearing boots, and she was barefoot, so it didn't work too well, but she was able to escape by faking him out, going for the crotch and then nailing his solar plexus with another elbow. He jerked away, and she ducked the first blow of the shotgun swing, but Danny punched her in the face and she reeled back, her head already spinning from the tender egg on the back of her head.

The first man took the opportunity to drive the rifle butt against her chest and she tumbled backwards, smacking her head against the ground, arms and back and legs sliding against the glass. Luckily she couldn't feel the pain, as she had already blacked out.

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It was dark where Sam sat, and he was tied up, his arms twisted harshly behind his back, the ropes biting into his skin. Looking around, he was able to discern various features, most importantly Dean on the other side of the shed, handcuffed to a wall. His brother was dressed only in a pair of boxers, and looked pretty damn cold in the damp air, but hadn't regained consciousness.

Sam wondered where they were, and memories of last night flooded over him. Scarlet entering the barn, the man standing over him—his head pounded, and he had a killer headache. He didn't know, but this didn't seem anything more than very weird and highly dangerous.

The door opened and someone came in. Sam recognized Scarlet almost instantly, but she moved differently, and something seemed . . . off.

"Hello Sam," she smirked, and flicked on the light. A harsh fluorescent light burned his eyes, and he squinted, keeping his eyes on her.

"Scarlet, help us—get us out of here!" he gasped, and saw Dean stir awake.

"Oh, I don't know about that," she replied, putting a hand on her hip. Dean woke fully at the sound of her voice, and snarled.

"You're back, bitch?" he snapped. "Get your ass over here and I'll show you fighting back. No one freaking pulls a move like that on me—"

"Dean," Sam said, but his brother continued on that strain. "Dean!" Dean finally stopped and looked at him. Scarlet just looked amused, and superior. The latter was an expression he had never seen on her before, and it didn't seem . . . right. "Dean, what the hell is going on?"

"That bitch isn't Scarlet, Sammy," Dean said. His eyes narrowed, and he stared at her. "What the hell did you do to her?"

"Oh, she'll be joining you—for a short time," the shapeshifter—demon?—smirked. "In fact, here she is right now." Two men entered the room, a still form between them. Sam cried out at the sight of the real Scarlet, her back and arms bleeding from various cuts, hair spilled over her face like blood. They dumped her a distance away from the brothers, and one of the men snapped a pair of handcuffs on her wrists, locking her to a pretty sturdy pipe. Her legs were tied up with a thick piece of rope, and she was left there, looking half dead.

The fake Scarlet just watched with amusement, and sauntered over to the real one, touching her battered face. "I did a good job, huh?" she asked, casting a glance at Dean.

"Fuck you!" he snarled, but seemed embarrassed.

"Of course, her tits are a little small." The false Scarlet ran a hand down her breasts. "I think I improved on the earlier model. What do you think?"

"Who the hell are you?" Sam demanded while Dean tugged fruitlessly at his bonds. The real Scarlet's eyes flickered, but her imitation's focus was on him.

"Me? Why, Scarlet, of course," the shapeshifter said, and behind her Scarlet's eyes snapped open. She swung her bound legs and kicked the faker in the back of the knees. Her look-alike crumpled with a yell, and Scarlet kicked her again, aiming for the kill, but unfortunately the other was able to regain her feet, kicking the real Scarlet viciously in the face.

Scarlet's head snapped back as the kick connected, and went still for a moment, blinking as if to clear her head, hanging limp against her bonds.

"What I want to know, is who the hell you three are," the false Scarlet said. "And why you lied about being construction safety experts, or whatever. And why this Striker called."

The real Scarlet's head picked up slightly at the name of her boyfriend, but she said nothing. She just looked dazed.

"You're in trouble, if he called," Dean grinned, putting on more bravado than he possibly could have felt. "He's one mean son of a bitch."

Sam glanced worriedly at Scarlet, eyeing the trickle of blood that was sliding its way down her nose. One eye was rapidly swelling closed, the skin a bluish purple bruise.

The shapeshifter just sneered, and came close to Dean. "Didn't you like last night?" Dean got real still, and Sam wondered just what had happened. Had she? Had he? Oh fuck.

"What do you want?" Sam demanded as Dean's neck began to cord up and he got really mad.

"I wanted Darryl," the shapeshifter snapped. "And I got . . . Dean. Better, I guess, but after all that I went through—"

"What is she talking about?" Sam asked Dean.

"Blood rites," Scarlet croaked, her voice raspy. "They do blood sacrifices. The river has something to do with it—it's thirsty for more blood."

Sam stared at the shapeshifter, who was eyeing Scarlet evilly, looking like she wanted to do something atrocious. "Shut up," she hissed, stalking towards Scarlet, who just met her advance with a level eye. "Just who the fuck are you?"

"Who are you, Molly?" Scarlet asked. "Is that even who you really are?"

Sam was completely lost. First he'd been knocked unconscious, and now two Scarlets, and the real Scarlet knew more about what was going on than he did. Blood sacrifices . . . there were various forms of that, whether as tribute or to bring about some sort of change or call some spirit, so he had no idea what that entailed. If the sacrifice was big enough it could have done a lot of things. He didn't know too much about blood sacrifices, though.

"Don't get pissy just because I slept with your boy," the shapeshifter leered, and Sam spared a glance to Dean, who was looking really embarrassed. "He's really good."

"Whore," Scarlet snapped.

"Watch what you're calling your own face," the shapeshifter snarled, and kicked Scarlet in the ribs. The assassin curled up on herself, a low moan escaping her lips, and the shapeshifter laughed. It wasn't at all like Scarlet's lilting giggle or her amused snicker, but something evil that cracked in Sam's ears. What made it all the more disturbing was that it came from Scarlet's face, and in her voice.

"You're not me."

"Dean would beg to differ, right honey?" the shapeshifter turned towards Sam's brother, and kissed him on the cheek. He just closed his eyes and looked pissed and cold. "We had fun, huh?"

Dean erupted, struggling wildly towards her. "You bitch!" he yelled.

She just smirked. "You know you liked it." She jerked her head, as if hearing something, and her smirk broadened. "Well, that's the last thing you'll like in a long time." She regarded Scarlet for a long moment, her face thoughtful. "I hope they take a long time cutting you up," she said, her voice spiteful. "And when I drink your blood—"

"Go ahead, suck it down," Scarlet snarled. She looked almost triumphant. "You might last a day, maybe even a month, but you'll die a nastier death than me."

The shapeshifter paused, and her eyes narrowed. Sam had never realized how menacing Scarlet could look. "Excuse me?" she asked. "Your boys are dying right after you."

Two men entered the room, and Sam turned his head, eyes widening slightly as a third came in. He carried a shotgun, and had it leveled at them, as if to say that if they made one false move, he'd blow their brains out. Sam was betting that the shotgun wasn't filled with rock salt.

"Grab her," the third said, and the first two moved towards the real Scarlet, cautiously. Her lips rose in a snarl, and she pressed her back against the wall, practically spitting with rage, but her eyes had a wide, trapped look. With those slit pupils she truly looked inhuman—a feral creature.

They beat her down shovels until she lay limp and unconscious, Dean yelling in anger and straining at his bonds. Sam yelled too, not realizing it until he stopped and found that his throat was hoarse, and the shapeshifter stood over them once more, smirking happily. Scarlet had already been dragged away, her head lolling, blood trickling from her nose.

"Say good-bye to your bitch," she leered, and the third man glared at her.

"I told you to stay away from them, Molly," he said, voice low and dangerous. "Bad enough you took _her_ form, but those boys . . . they're trouble."

"I can handle myself, Uncle," Molly snapped, annoyed. She tossed her head in a manner entirely like Scarlet's, and stalked out ahead of the third man. He glanced back at them, and shut the door, taking with him the light.

"You _slept_ with her?" Sam asked, letting his incredulity creep into his voice.

Dean grunted as he struggled with his bonds. In the dark shadows, his face was lined and creased, the hard outline of his jaw sticking out sharply, making him look gaunt and aged. And pissed. "Do _not_ talk to me about it, Sammy," he growled.

Sam shifted his hands, but the ropes were too tight. "Dude, you knew she wasn't . . . I can't believe you would. I mean, you two—"

"Shut _up_, Sammy," Dean snarled.

"But—"

"_Cut it out_!"

"Okay, okay," Sam sighed. Sometimes it was easier dealing with a mule. Although he hadn't thought his brother was all that attracted to Scarlet—but maybe he should have seen the signs, or maybe the shapeshifter caught him in a particularly horny moment. It wasn't like Dean ever passed up an opportunity. "I can't break out."

Dean cursed, and smacked his head back against the wall, then cursed again as he hit the bump on his head. "We can't let her get drained by them," he groaned, and resumed his efforts, futile though they were. These rednecks knew how to tie knots.

"She's an assassin—she can handle it," Sam said, but even he couldn't pretend. Scarlet had seemed . . . defeated.

Dean grunted, and then laughed softly. "Aha-ha, I got a hand out," he whispered triumphantly.

Sam waited impatiently, watching the door and listening for anyone coming closer as Dean untied himself and moved over to him.

He was fumbling with the knots tying his legs when a scream pierced the air.


	12. Chapter 12

"_Anastavi denostrum devonastro incantatos_," a voice chanted over her, and her eyes blinked open. One eye stayed shut, and a sob broke through her throat as the pain shot through her. Her arms were wrenched above her head and pain laced through her shoulders. Something dug into her back, but she saw stars with each rattling breath she took, and a burning sensation ate at the center of her chest.

Four people stood over her, their bodies naked and sagging, and she struggled briefly, although her movements seemed sluggish, and she found that she didn't really . . . care.

The words lulled her, tugging her down, and her eyelids drifted closed. Warmth spread through her body, and she was beginning to feel like she was finally comfortable when one of the men leaned over her and put his hand on one of her breasts.

Eyes flickering open, she watched as he marked an "X" on her chest, just above her left breast, counting ribs. The felt marker tickled her skin, and she shifted.

The pain stabbed at her back, and her breath wrenched with a gasp—and the chanting tugged at her, trying to gather it to her whims, but she snarled, feeling like it came out more like a whimper, and struggled away.

The chanting continued, but the two women glanced at each other, realizing that the spell wasn't holding her anymore.

Chandre's mouth opened to shriek, to hurtle curses at these _creatures_, but a man, not in the ceremony, hustled over and shoved a gag into her mouth, reducing her yells to muffled grunts, letting her twist and turn in her bonds, struggling to free herself.

One of the men raised his dagger above his head, and she bucked away from him, but the bonds stayed fast, and she was kept pinned.

A scream ripped through the air, followed by a gunshot, and the man with the dagger paused, jerking as if he had been shot.

The other three paused, staring about them wildly, but the man called Gus snapped, "Get on with the damn thing. Finish it up!"

"W-We have to start over," the chanter said, his voice hoarse.

"Then hurry it up! I'll go see what's wrong," Gus said. "Those boys are probably loose."

He left, and the four magic-workers stared at each other. Then the chanter raised his hands to the sky, and began his incantation once more. Chandre struggled again, trying to make any noise to stop the man from continuing the chant.

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"Scarlet!" Sam yelped, and darted forwards, but stopped as the door was wrenched open and Scarlet hurtled through, shrieking.

Dean caught her, and slugged her in the face, knocking her to the ground. Sam realized that it was the shapeshifter Molly seconds before a figure appeared at the door, looming and dangerous. A snarl rose in the silence, and a man stalked inside.

"Striker?" Dean asked. He grunted when the shapeshifter twisted and elbowed him in the gut.

"What are you doing to her?" the werewolf asked. He was in human form, wearing clothes . . . for once, Sam noticed. Striker's jaw clenched, and Sam saw that he had blood splatters on his forehead, and his fingers were bloody. He looked dangerous, and royally pissed.

"S-Striker?" the shapeshifter squeaked. Dean released her, and she tumbled forwards. "S-Striker . . . they were attacking me—ahh!"

Striker had already lunged and grabbed her throat, holding her close to him as she gargled and screamed. He pressed his face close, and Sam froze, watching as his fingers changed, the bone crunching, the nails elongating about the shapeshifter's delicate throat.

"You think you can fool me, bitch?" he growled, slurring the words as his teeth grew into fangs and his mouth stretched into a muzzle. "You _smell_ wrong." His hand tightened and he flung the shapeshifter to one side.

Molly smacked into the wall, her head making a wet, slapping sound before she fell bonelessly to the ground, blood spurting from her slashed throat. The back of her head looked like a bashed in melon, and Sam felt more than a little queasy.

Striker turned to them, his eyes grey and feral. "Where is she?" he snarled, but his voice cracked, and his eyes pleaded to them. He sounded like he was in anguish.

"Blood sacrifice," Dean gasped, and Striker shuddered, dropping to his knees. He barely managed to remove his clothes before the Change rippled over him, and Dean grabbed his weapons, tossing a gun to Sam as the golden wolf bounded silently out the door.

"What the hell . . . ?" Sam asked, but Dean had already dashed out the door in hot pursuit.

Screams and a gunshot tore the rainy night in half as they sprinted for the barn, passing by the limp bodies of various people on their way. All bore clawmarks or were missing their throats. Some were still jerking wildly, their bodies spasming uncontrollably as they died.

Reaching the barn, Sam was confronted with the ungodly carnage.

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Another scream made the chanter falter, but he continued, his voice hurried, rushed. Chandre yelled into her gag and struggled, watching the dagger being raised once again.

She might be about to die, but she would come back as a freaking ghost and haunt their asses—the dagger dropped down, and she closed her eyes, screaming as it plunged into her chest—

The pain bit down and her body bucked. Her eyes flew open as snarls rose above the patter of the rain, almost drowning out the screams as the men and women were almost torn apart piece by piece.

Shi fell beside her, Changing into half-form, and his eyes were wild with fear.

"Blood—there's so much," he gasped, cutting her bonds and freeing her gag. His hands were bloody as he pulled the dagger from her chest, murmuring soothingly.

She realized she was crying—she had died, and he was there, comforting her and telling her it was all right. This death was good, if Shi was there to share it with her, and she hugged him, her arms throbbing. Death was painful. Shi's bloodly fingers curled in her hair, and his lips left bloody stains on her cheeks as he kissed her tears.

"Scarlet!" Dean cried, and she glanced up, blinking. The Winchester boys were in her heaven? What was going on?

"Baby—kiddo—what's wrong? Wake up," Shi urged, and she turned her gaze back to him, and saw the worry in his eyes.

"Shi . . . ? Being dead . . . _hurts_," she moaned, and everything rushed forwards, taking her into darkness.


	13. Chapter 13

Dean felt a surge of protectiveness as Striker cradled Scarlet in his arms, kissing her forehead, his breath ragged. It was completely irrational, but the man _had_ abandoned her for several months.

Scarlet just looked . . . small and practically dead, but Striker stopped the bleeding in the stab-wound on her chest, bandaging it up quickly. Sam offered to help as he wrapped it up, but Striker just shook his head. The werewolf ran his fingers over the fading scars on Scarlet's stomach, and stood up, gathering her into his arms.

"How did you get here?" Sam asked, glancing at Dean as if asking him to take over, but Dean didn't feel the words. He couldn't sort out his stupid _feelings_, for Chrissakes. With that bitch of a shapeshifter in the car, and seeing Scarlet naked again, he didn't know . . . he certainly didn't feel that it was allowed that Striker could just waltz in after several months and be the hero. That was _his_ job, for crying out loud. Wasn't he supposed to get the girl?

"The Pack reached Canada, and my turn as Ulfric ended," Striker said, finding a blanket and wrapping her up in it. Scarlet stirred, and he nuzzled her, all the fierceness leaving his body. Scarlet's eyes opened, and she stared at him, seeming confused.

"Why are you carrying me?" she asked, and he set her down. She winced, but not a sound came from her lips, and Dean wanted to . . . he didn't know what he wanted to do. He felt like his feelings had changed—or maybe they had always been the same?

Suddenly Scarlet lunged forwards, and punched Striker in the face. The blow was powerful, even though she was steadily weakened, and the werewolf was tossed backwards, landing on his back with a thud.

"Bastard," she snarled, struggling to her feet and clenching the blanket about her.

"Scarlet, you okay?" Sam asked, stepping forwards, but she had eyes only on Striker, who was picking himself to his feet slowly, eyeing her warily.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. Dean crossed his arms, shivering in the cold air.

"You _left_ me," she hissed. "And you just show up—"

"I called—"

"Bullshit," she snapped. Striker's eyes flashed, and his fists clenched, but he bowed his head briefly. "You probably fucked that shapeshifter, too—"

In two striding bounds Striker had reached her and slugged her in the jaw, sending her to the ground. Dean erupted into action and held up Striker's handgun, kneeling beside Scarlet as she struggled to her feet.

Striker made to move forwards, but Dean snapped, "Come one step closer and I'll blow your fucking head off." The werewolf seethed, but made no move.

Sam had also raised his gun to the werewolf, but Scarlet shoved Dean's hands off. "I got this," she growled, and glared at Striker through her one good eye. The other still hadn't healed, and the skin was puffy and purple.

"I'm _sorry_," Striker said, stiffly. "I can smell."

Dean glanced down at Scarlet, who was struggling to her feet, looking a step away from death. The scene seemed vaguely familiar, and he was drawn back to the clearing where they had first met Striker. The werewolf hadn't hit her then, but there had definitely been something about him that didn't give Dean warm and tingly feelings. If he was also an assassin, then Dean was feeling a little scared. He was a hunter, and he was a good hunter, but the werewolf had something about him that sent danger vibes roaring through the air.

"You _left_ me," Scarlet repeated, sounding more bitter and bewildered than hurt. "Without a fucking word or one freaking phone call. We're _partners_. Right?"

Striker had turned away, jaw clenched. His eyes were probably on the mutilated carcasses scattered about the dirt floor, but Dean just didn't know. He sighed, and all the aggression left him in that breath, making seem just like a tired human, naked, cold and utterly normal. "I thought you would be safe," he whispered, his voice almost inaudible.

"Obviously she'd be safer with us than with you," Dean snapped, finding his voice before the younger man. Without his anger, Striker looked younger—he didn't look helpless, but he didn't look like a challenge.

A flicker of anger danced in the werewolf's grey eyes, but he glanced at Scarlet, and there was sadness there. "Did you enjoy it?" he asked, and fled, slipping out into the cold rain.

Scarlet cried out, weaving on her feet, and Dean grabbed her elbow, stopping her from following. "Hey, it's okay," he said, and Sam moved forwards, closer, his gun lowered but ready for use.

"What did he mean?" Sam asked, squinting out into the pouring rain outside. Or he could have been wrinkling his nose from the smell that was creeping about the musty old barn.

Scarlet just shook her head, and rubbed the scar on her arm—the purple one that refused to fade even as the other cuts from the werewolves had settled into shimmering pale lines, and then into smooth skin. Dean had noticed that she rubbed it when thinking about something or when agitated, but had never asked where it had come from. He had enough scars on his own body that he had only figured that it was just an old wound acting up.

"Thanks for letting me stay with you," she said, turning slowly to face them.

"You can stay longer," Dean said, the words popping from his mouth. Sure, she was annoying as hell, but she was a good hand to have around. Better than some other people he knew, and she could keep a level head. "It's better than—"

"No," she interrupted, shaking her head. "You don't understand."

"Then stay with us," Sam said. "You can leave him."

She smiled sadly, and shook her head, looking even more defeated than when Molly had told her she was going to die. But there was that fierceness that lurked behind, when she had said that her death would be avenged. "No, I can't," she replied, and looked into Sam's eyes. "You wouldn't understand."

"Scarlet—" Sam began, but she was already slipping away.

Dean grabbed her arm, frantic. She _couldn't_ go with that monster. "We'll keep you safe from him," he said, but she shook her head.

"You don't understand," she said, firmly.

"He probably left you behind," Sam said. Dean agreed—he had torn out in a hurry.

"He's waiting," Scarlet replied. "Good-bye."

"Scarlet—" Dean didn't know what he was going to say, but she shook her head, already heading towards the door.

"I love him," she whispered, and he knew that Sam hadn't heard it, because she was gone and Sam just stood there, dumbstruck.

Dean moved towards the door, and watched as she picked her way across the gravel road to the figure that waited a ways off, dressed in dark clothes, the only bright spot his skin and blond hair.

Sam joined him, and they watched as Striker bowed his head, holding out his hand to Scarlet, who took it without hesitation, and they walked away into the darkness.

Scarlet didn't look back.

Dean blew out a sigh when they vanished, and turned to his brother. "Ready to rock out?" he asked, trying to regain his normal lightness. He supposed that he couldn't be the hero all the time, but dammit, it wasn't fair.

Sam sighed. "Yeah. Let's roll."

End

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A/N: Well, I decided to just post everything and end it right here. I know it doesn't seem conclusive, but I did say there would be no ChandreDean, even though Dean does like her. Anyhow, reviews and other stuff are much appreciated, and thanks so much for sticking around for so long! 


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